THE  VILLA 
CLAUDIA 


MITCHELL 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  VILLA  CLAUDIA 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  LAST  AMERICAN 
AMOS  JUDD 
THAT  FIRST  AFFAIR 
GLORIA  VICTIS 
THE  PINES  OF  LORY 
LIFE'S  FAIRY  TALES 


THE 

VILLA   CLAUDIA 

By 
John  Ames  Mitchell 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    A.    D.    BLASHFIELD,    BY     THE 
AUTHOR,    AND    FROM    ANCIENT    SOURCES 


New  York 

Life  Publishing  Company 
1904 


LIBRARY 


Not  to  'weary  you  overmuch  'with  tedious  details." 

— HORACE. 


Copyright,  1904 

BY   J.    A.    MITCHELL 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  by 
James  Henderson  &•=  Sons 

Printed   in   the   United   States 


All  rights  reserved 
THE  TROW  PRESS,  NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 

I.  ENGLISH  SPOKEN    . 

II.  A  MOONLIT  GARDEN 

III.  FRA  DIAVOLO'S  FLUTE    . 

IV.  PARADISO 
V.  INFERNO 

VI.  FRA  DIAVOLO'S  FACE 

VII.  STRANGE  STORIES  . 

VIII.  Two  LOVERS 

IX.  A  TALE  OF  DISCOVERY   . 

X.  FORGOTTEN  THINGS 

XI.  MR.  HOLLOWELL    . 

XII.  PROPHETIC     . 

XIII.  "You!" 

XIV.  FRIENDS  OF  FATE  . 
XV.  IN  THE  CHAMBER 

XVI.  SANTOVANO'S  VICTORY    . 

XVII.  WORD  FROM  HORACE 

XVIII.  THE  PRICE    .         .^        . 

XIX.  THE  LOST  VERSE  . 

XX.  A  POSTSCRIPT 

XXI.  A  VERY  OLD  FRIEND     . 

XXII.  Si  PARLA  ITALIANO 


9 

22 

35 

47 
64 

83 

103 
119 


144 

154 
162 

176 
189 

202 

2I7 

235 

248 
260 
270 
283 

293 


THE 
VILLA  CLAUDIA 

I 
ENGLISH    SPOKEN 

UPON  Tivoli,  the  Tibur  of  the  ancients, 
upon  its  cliffs,  its  water-falls,  its  cypresses 
and  its  ruined  temples  lay  the  mellow 
haze  of  an  October  sunset.  Various  poets, 
through  the  ages,  have  sung  the  beauties  of 
the  scene.  Painters  have  striven  to  record 
its  charm; — the  charm  of  a  wild  but  flowery 
hill  where  human  hands,  for  nearly  thirty  cen 
turies,  have  built,  destroyed,  embellished;  where 
Nature  softens  their  mistakes  and  gives  the 
crowning  glory  to  their  triumphs. 

High  up  the  hill,  and  just  below  the  town, 
a  traveler  from  a  young  republic  in  the  west 
stood  leaning  upon  the  parapet  of  a  road  that 

9 


The  Villa  Claudia 

descended,  in  a  tortuous  line,  to  the  world 
beneath.  Across  the  Campagna  his  eyes  fol 
lowed  the  slowly  changing  light,  to  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's,  sixteen  miles  away,  now  a  pur 
ple  dot  on  the  long,  straight  line  of  the  hori 
zon.  This  young  man  was  not  so  tall  as  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen.  And  he  showed 
a  tendency  to  plumpness.  A  very  short  mouth 
intensified  the  juvenility  of  his  boyish,  tranquil 
face. 

Just  now  he  was  in  a  revery,  with  an  absent, 
somewhat  melancholy  look;  such  a  look  as  be 
fitted  a  poet  and  philosopher  amid  these  sur 
roundings.  For,  in  spite  of  youth,  he  was  both 
these  things.  At  the  present  moment,  he  saw 
not  the  shattered  arches,  the  fallen  columns  and 
the  ruins  that  lay  about  him — but  the  Tivoli  of 
two  thousand  years  ago,  the  "many-fountained 
Tibur"  of  Horace,  where  flocked,  for  summer 
pleasure,  the  power,  the  beauty  and  the  wealth 
of  Rome.  He  saw  it  glistening  with  villas,  and 
white  with  marble  temples :  and  Roman  maidens 
were  gazing  across  this  same  Campagna  watch 
ing  for  belated  youths.  And  he  pictured  Hor 
ace — his  beloved  Horace — seated  in  the  gar 
dens  of  the  villa  down  below  there,  talking  with 
10 


English  Spoken 

Maecenas — perhaps  reading  a  new  poem. 
Changed,  indeed,  was  this  hill  since  Horace 
knew  it! 

The  big  red  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  distant 
city  when  the  American  straightened  up  and  re 
turned,  with  a  sigh,  to  his  own  times.  Observ 
ing,  in  the  valley  below,  a  group  of  homeward- 
wending  goats,  he  murmured,  from  an  ancient 
poet, 

Amidst  the  mighty  ruins  play, 
And  frisk  upon  the  tombs  of  kings. 

Turning  away,  he  walked  slowly  up  the  high 
road,  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  But  he  had 
barely  started  when  he  noticed,  high  above  him, 
along  the  top  of  a  terrace  wall  beside  the  road,  a 
marble  balustrade  surmounted  by  four  statues. 
These  statues,  with  a  splendid  contempt  for  the 
world  at  large,  stood  with  their  backs  to  the 
street.  The  traveller  stopped  and  looked  up,  in 
amused  astonishment.  Evidently  there  was  a 
garden  the  other  side.  He  found  himself  re 
senting,  gently,  the  complacent  insolence  mani 
fested  by  these  four  marble  backs.  At  the  same 
time  they  filled  him  with  a  kind  of  admiration : 
and  they  excited  his  curiosity. 
ii 


The  Villa  Claudia 

As  he  stood  there,  in  contemplation,  his  face 
upturned,  his  hands  behind  him,  three  figures 
came  down  the  road;  a  donkey  with  empty  pan 
niers,  followed  by  a  man  and  woman  whose 
chatter  and  noisy  merriment  sounded,  to  the 
pensive  youth,  out  of  place  among  these  silent 
marbles.  The  man  raised  his  hat  and  saluted 
the  traveller.  The  greeting  was  returned,  and 
the  traveller  recognized,  in  the  Italian,  a  lin- 
guacious  guide  whose  friendship  he  had  secured 
that  afternoon  by  a  few  unworthy  cigars.  Also, 
the  traveller  remembered  being  deeply  im 
pressed  by  the  man's  delight  at  speaking  Eng 
lish,  and  by  his  fluency;  a  fluency  unchecked  by 
any  laws  of  grammar  or  pronunciation.  But 
the  unfailing  good-nature  of  his  square,  brown 
face  almost  compensated  for  ambiguity  of 
speech.  A  set  of  very  white  and  very  even 
teeth  were  now  displayed  as  he  said: 

"Good-day,  Mister.    Ze  day  bello." 

uYes,  a  fine  day.  Can  you  tell  me  what  that 
is,  behind  the  wall,  up  there?  Some  villa?" 

uYaz.  Zat  ze  Villa  Claudia.  It  is  to  Amer 
ican  high  weeman." 

"American  highwaymen !" 

"Yaz — high  lady.  Her  sposo — what  him  in 
12 


English  Spoken 

English? — her  sposo  dead.  She  consunta  dal 
dolore.  O  vera  dolente !  She  sorry  to  be  dead. 
But  afater  he  she  marry — not  afater  her  death." 

"She  doesn't  marry  after  her  death?" 

"Yaz,  she  marry  afater  her  death." 

"After  her  own  death?" 

"Yaz." 

"Well,  that  is  unusual." 

The  Italian  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said, 
with  a  wise  look,  "No,  it  is  soma  time  custom. 
She  marry  to  Mister  Capodilista — Mister  Al- 
lesandro  Capodilista." 

"Oh!  she  married  after  her  first  husband's 
death,  perhaps." 

"Yaz." 

This  local  gossip  proved  of  no  special  inter 
est  to  the  traveller.  And  so,  with  a  parting  look 
at  the  girl  and  the  donkey  who  stood  waiting,  a 
few  feet  distant,  he  was  about  to  turn  away. 
But  the  Italian,  after  an  upward  glance  toward 
the  statues  to  assure  himself  there  were  no 
eavesdroppers,  came  a  step  nearer  and  said,  in 
a  lower  voice  and  with  an  air  of  mystery: 

"Zat  villa  is  a  ontaida." 

"A  ontaida?" 

"Yaz:  grata  ontaida."  Then  detecting  a 
13 


The  Villa  Claudia 

want  of  comprehension  on  his  listener's  face,  he 
opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  pointed  his  ten  fin 
gers  heavenward  and  wiggled  them  with  a  look 
of  horror.  "Spirito ! — anima  de  morti.  Spet- 
tro.  You  know :  spirito.  Ouse  of  spirito." 

"Spirito?     You  mean  spirits?" 

"Yaz;  yaz!     Too  mucha  spirits." 

"The  lady  drinks  too  much?" 

"No!  No!  No!  She  gooda  lady.  It  is  on- 
taida  ouse.  Mister  Capodilista  he  dead  by  not 
evera  day — common.  Someting  stranga — not 
morire  di  morte  naturale.  No —  Some  tinga 
straordinario — orrendo.  Is  it?" 

"Very  likely." 

The  cheerfulness  with  which  the  American 
received  this  news  caused  an  obvious  disappoint 
ment  to  the  narrator,  and  the  girl  who  was 
standing  near  by,  with  a  hand  upon  the  donkey, 
laughed  aloud.  The  Italian  looked  at  her, 
frowned,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then, 
with  great  earnestness : 

"The  signore  is  well  know  his  own  language 
ze  word  Ontaida  Ouse." 

The  traveller  also  frowned  in  his  endeavor  to 
grasp  the  meaning.  "Ontaida  Ouse?  No.  I 
really  do  not  know  it." 

14 


English  Spoken 

The  Italian  pointed  to  one  or  two  buildings 
in  sight,  saying: 

"Ouse,  ouse." 

"House!"  exclaimed  the  traveller. 

"Yaz,  ouse.    And  zis  ouse  is  ontaida." 

"Ontaida."  And  the  American  closed  his 
eyes  and  drew  a  hand  across  his  forehead  in  a 
final  effort.  "Ontaida,"  he  repeated.  "Do  you 
mean  untidy?" 

"Oonteedy?     I  do  not  know  him." 

"I  guess  that's  what  you  mean.  Untidy 
house.  That  is,  a  dirty  house." 

"Dirty!  Ah,  no,  no,  no!  Giammai !  Zat 
word  not.  I  know  him.  Zese  oosa  eleganta — 
pulita — bene  pulita." 

After  a  short  pause  of  discouragement,  and 
in  a  tone  of  mild  remonstrance,  he  murmured, 
"It  ees  great  astonish  you  know  not  ontaida." 

Holding  up  his  left  hand  and  tapping  the 
point  of  a  finger  as  each  syllable  was  uttered,  he 
said,  slowly  and  with  dramatic  solemnity: 

"In-fes-ta-ta  degli  spi-ri-ti.  The  signor  com- 
prend?  No?" 

The  American  nodded.  "Yes,  I  comprehend. 
Infested  by  spirits." 

"Yaz,  zat  ees !    Ontaida."    He  stepped  back, 

15 


The  Villa  Claudia 

hunched  up  his  shoulders,  and  moving  to  and 
fro  with  a  gliding  motion,  rolled  his  eyes  and 
uttered  sepulchral  noises. 

"I  see!"  exclaimed  the  spectator.  "I  was 
very  stupid.  It  is  a  haunted  house." 

"Yaz,  ontaida  ouse."  And  the  victor,  in  full 
enjoyment  of  his  triumph,  showed  his  white 
teeth  and  made  a  bow.  Ill-flavored  cigars  were 
once  more  presented,  and  a  moment  later  the 
traveller  was  again  alone.  But  he  could  hear 
the  laughter  of  the  guide  and  girl  as  they  joked 
and  fooled,  and  scolded  the  donkey  on  their 
downward  way. 

While  having  no  faith  in  haunted  houses  he 
studied,  with  renewed  interest  the  four  marble 
backs.  These  Italian  peasants  were  supersti 
tious.  That  he  knew.  "Haunted!  How  easy 
to  give  that  reputation  to  a  dwelling!  Proba 
bly  every  town  in  Italy  has  its  haunted  house." 
And  he  smiled  as  he  reflected  on  what  a  multi 
tude  of  ghosts  there  would  be  among  the  ruins 
of  Tivoli  if  her  departed  residents  should  re 
turn. 

As  he  started  leisurely  up  the  hill  he  found,  at 
the  end  of  the  wall  that  hid  the  Villa  Claudia,  a 
flight  of  stone  steps  leading  to  a  sort  of  alley,  or 

16 


English  Spoken 

very  narrow  street.  This  passage,  although 
somewhat  gloomy  in  the  fading  light,  promised 
a  shorter  cut  toward  the  centre  of  the  town. 
He  ascended  the  steps,  a  dozen  or  so  in  all,  but 
had  gone  a  very  few  feet  along  the  alley 
when  he  paused  before  an  opening  in  the  wall  at 
his  side.  A  heavy  wooden  door  had  swung 
open,  giving  a  view  of  the  garden  within — the 
garden  of  the  Villa  Claudia.  Just  beyond  this 
doorway  he  noticed  a  man  and  woman  in  ear 
nest  conversation.  The  man  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves;  he  had  round  shoulders  and  a  very 
small  head.  As  the  young  American  stood  look 
ing  through  this  doorway  he  could  see  a  statue 
of  Cupid  on  a  pedestal,  and  the  dancing  water 
of  a  fountain,  both  in  clear  relief  against  the 
sombre  cypresses  beyond.  In  this  glimpse 
through  the  open  doorway  there  was  something 
irresistibly  inviting.  After  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  the  youth  stepped  within.  He  found  him 
self  in  a  spacious  garden,  the  Villa  Claudia  on 
one  hand,  on  the  other  a  long  balustrade  with 
the  four  statues.  This  time  they  were  facing 
him.  He  saw  expanses  of  grass,  broken  here 
and  there  by  dark  masses  of  shrubbery  and  by 
beds  of  flowers.  A  broad,  straight  walk  led 


The  Villa  Claudia 

from  the  semicircular  space  near  the  four  stat 
ues,  where  the  fountain  played,  to  a  little  ter 
race  before  the  house.  But  what  most  im 
pressed  the  intruder  was  the  profusion  of  ancient 
marbles.  Along  the  sides  of  the  garden,  at  an 
gles  of  beds  and  walks,  in  corners  of  shrubbery 
and  against  the  walls  of  the  villa  were  busts  and 
statues,  vases,  pedestals  and  tablets. 

He  walked  toward  the  four  statues,  prompted 
by  a  curiosity  to  see  the  fronts  of  these  persons 
with  whose  backs  he  was  already  so  familiar. 
They  seemed  to  be  goddesses — or  the  four  sea 
sons — so  far  as  he  could  discover  in  the  twi 
light.  But  when  he  looked  off,  toward  the  west, 
between  these  figures,  he  stood  entranced.  The 
only  foreground  was  the  bit  of  earth  between 
himself  and  the  balustrade;  then,  beyond,  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  Campagna  with  nothing 
but  the  open  country  between  himself  and  the 
horizon.  The  dome  of  St.  Peter's  had  vanished 
in  the  gathering  gloom,  and  above  all  was  the 
same  sky  that  he  loved  in  the  old  Italian  paint 
ings — a  deep,  rich,  greenish  blue,  growing  light 
er  toward  the  horizon.  To  complete  the  pic 
ture,  a  silvery  moon  hovered  midway  in  the 
western  sky. 

18 


English  Spoken 

In  a  corner  of  one  of  the  marble  seats  that 
formed  a  semicircle  near  the  fountain,  he  es 
tablished  himself.  And  in  so  doing  he  drew  a 
long,  deep  breath  of  comfort — of  luxurious 
physical  relaxation.  The  scene  before  him, 
with  its  almost  supernatural  beauty,  seemed  un 
real.  Laden  with  perfume  was  the  air  of  the 
garden — of  jessamine,  and  styrax,  and  of  roses 
— all  heavy  in  the  night  air.  In  a  dreamy  en 
chantment  he  gazed  lazily  at  the  fountain,  at 
the  moon,  and  at  the  four  statues,  now  shadowy, 
mysterious  masses,  darkly  outlined  against  the 
vivid  blue.  From  somewhere  down  the  hill, 
over  beyond  the  wall,  arose  the  plaintive  utter- 
ings  of  a  flute.  It  ceased  at  times :  then  seemed 
to  be  coming  nearer. 

The  splashing  of  the  fountain,  the  perfume 
of  the  flowers,  the  flute  and  the  universal  still 
ness,  all  were  soothing:  and  his  eyelids  kept 
shutting  out  the  moon. 


' 


O  Sestius,  happy  Sestius !  use  the 
Moments  as  they  pass; 

Horace. 


20 


II 


21 


II 

A    MOONLIT   GARDEN 

FROM  the  Villa  Claudia,  through  a  case 
ment  window  that  opened  to  the  floor,  a 
girl  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace. 
Slight  of  figure,  short  but  very  erect,  with  a 
dainty  head  and  delicate  features — her  eye 
brows  so  high  above  her  eyes  as  to  give  a 
constant  expression  of  mild  astonishment — she 
moved  jauntily  toward  the  steps  that  descended 
to  the  gravel  walk.  On  seeing  the  moon,  now 
confronting  her  in  the  western  sky,  she  stopped, 
wheeled  rapidly  about  and  smiled  upon  it,  over 
her  right  shoulder.  Again  facing  about,  she 
courtesicd  three  times  to  that  resplendent  lumi 
nary  and  stepped  down  into  the  garden.  For 
an  instant  she  paused  in  her  walk,  raising  her 
chin,  inhaling  the  perfumed  air  and  regarding 
the  moon  through  half-closed  eyes.  Then, 
slowly,  she  continued  along  the  gravel  path  to 
the  fountain.  Here  she  paused  again,  merely 

22 


A  Moonlit  Garden 

to  enjoy  the  things  about  her — the  odor  of  the 
flowers,  the  splashing  of  the  water,  the  moon 
light  and  the  general  calmness.  In  a  moment, 
however,  she  became  aware  of  a  sleeping  figure 
at  her  elbow — a  man  in  gray,  reclining  com 
fortably  on  the  marble  bench. 

Instinctively  the  maiden  took  a  backward 
step,  then  regarded  him  at  her  leisure.  She 
came  nearer.  Slowly,  and  with  caution,  she 
leaned  forward,  and  was  studying  the  boyish 
face  on  which  the  moon  shone  full  and  bright 
— her  head  within  a  yard  of  his  own — when 
the  closed  eyes  began  to  open,  slowly  at  first, 
then  wider  with  a  start.  The  girl  stepped  back. 
The  youth,  in  confusion,  rose  hastily  to  his  feet. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I — came  in  through 
the  gate.  It  is — a — perhaps  you  speak  Eng 
lish?" 

The  young  lady  nodded;  and  unless  the 
moonlight  deceived  him,  there  was  a  smile  on 
her  face.  His  embarrassment  increased.  For 
there  she  stood  in  silence,  like  a  vision,  in  her 
white  dress — like  something  unreal  in  the  sil 
very  light;  and  he  feared  that  before  he  was 
fully  awake  she  might  mingle  with  the  statues, 
with  the  waters  of  the  fountain — and 
23 


The  Villa  Claudia 

vanish.  For,  as  yet,  he  was  none  too  sure  of 
being  awake. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

Her  voice,  in  a  vague,  indefinable  way, 
stirred  youthful  memories  in  the  young  man's 
brain.  Vainly  he  tried  to  identify  it — where 
he  had  heard  it,  and  when.  But  he  answered 
simply, 

"Morris  Lane." 

"I  thought  so." 

He  moved  a  little  nearer,  more  between  the 
girl  and  the  moon,  for  a  better  light  on  her 
face. 

"Betty  Farnham!" 

She  nodded  and  held  forth  her  hands,  which 
he  seized  in  both  his  own.  Laughingly,  she 
said,  "I  recognized  you,  at  once — fat  little 
Morris  Lane,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you!" 

"But  I  had  no  idea  you  lived  here  in  Tivoli !" 

"Yes,  we  have  been  in  Tivoli  five  years.  We 
came  here  when  mamma  married  Signer  Capo- 
dilista." 

"But  you  have  been  in  Italy  longer  than 
that?" 

"Oh,  thirteen  years!  I  was  only  seven  when 
24 


A  Moonlit  Garden 

we  came.  Why,  just  think  how  long  it  is  since 
we  played  together  in  Harrington !" 

The  youth  heaved  a  long,  deep  sigh.  "And 
what  good  times  we  did  have!" 

"Didn't  we!" 

"I  supposed  it  would  never  end." 

Then  many  questions  were  asked,  and  an 
swered  :  questions  regarding  family  and  friends, 
and  of  her  life  in  Italy,  and  of  his  affairs  at 
home. 

As  they  seated  themselves  upon  the  marble 
bench  where  Morris  had  taken  his  nap,  he  said, 
"And  here  we  are;  both  grown  up." 

"Yes,  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Time  has 
stolen  a  march  on  us.  It  seems  but  a  few  years 
ago  that  the  old  express-wagon  ran  away  with 
us  down  the  hill,  behind  the  Methodist  church. 
I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  was  frightened  to 
death." 

"So  was  I.     But  I  didn't  let  on." 

"Of  course  not,  being  a  man!" 

Then  both  laughed  as  if  they  still  were  chil 
dren.  But  the  young  lady  stopped  suddenly 
and  exclaimed,  as  if  making  a  surprising  dis 
covery, 

"Why,  you  have  the  same  laugh — the  same 

25 


The  Villa  Claudia 

funny  little  chuckle  as  ever!  I  never  heard 
anybody  else  laugh  in  such  a  way.  But  I  like 
it!" 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  like  it." 

"It's  a  very  curious  laugh,  though.  You 
must  admit  that." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is." 

"How  I  teased  you  about  what  old  Dr. 
Perry  said.  You  know  he  took  us  into  his 
greenhouse  one  day,  after  Sunday-school,  and 
gave  us  some  grapes,  and  told  us  a  funny  story  ? 
And  when  you  laughed  at  the  funny  story — he 
had  never  seen  you  before — he  thought  you 
were  mocking  him,  with  your  absurd  little  sing 
song  chuckle.  Do  you  remember  that?" 

"Sort  of." 

"Well,  he  was  quite  disgusted  with  you;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  I  explained  to  him  that 
you  always  laughed  that  way." 

Then,  more  seriously,  "But  how  strange  that 
you  should  turn  up  in  this  mysterious  manner, 
Morris!  And  that  you  should  be  older  and 
grown  up  surprises  me.  I  supposed  you  would 
always  remain  a  little  boy — a  fat,  pleasant, 
comfortable,  very  nice  little  boy.  You  hated 
to  be  called  'Roly  Poly.'  " 
26 


A  Moonlit  Garden 

"Oh,  yes.     I  remember  that!" 

"And  you  were  always  exasperatingly  serene 
and  rather  slow,  and  oh,  how  truthful  I  And 
you  were  always  changing  color.  Do  you  do 
that  still?  I  can't  see  in  this  moonlight." 

"I  am  afraid  I  do." 

"Well,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  you  are  just 
the  same.  And  I  am  glad  of  it!" 

Her  words  gave  him  pleasure.  For  to  him, 
these  unfamiliar,  somewhat  fairylike  surround 
ings,  with  the  mysterious  girl  beside  him — the 
adored  little  girl  of  his  boyhood  now  miracu 
lously  transformed  into  a  woman — seemed  of 
a  different  world;  a  world  of  sweet  surprises — 
and  not  quite  real.  This  feeling — a  sense  of 
exaltation,  gentle,  indefinable,  was  intensified 
by  the  ancient  garden  with  its  ghostly  tenants — 
its  moonlit  gods  and  goddesses.  In  the  notes 
of  the  distant  flute,  in  the  waters  of  the  foun 
tain — in  the  voice  beside  him — he  found  ex 
quisite  melodies. 

The  maiden,  as  if  responding  to  his  thoughts, 
but  more  to  herself  than  to  him,  murmured 
gently, 

"A  heavenly  night." 

The  young  man  straightened  up  a  little  and 
27 


The  Villa  Claudia 

looked  about.  "I  suppose  you  are  accustomed 
to  scenes  like  this,  but  to  me  it  is  like  fairyland : 
like  a  scene  in  an  opera,  or  an  illustration  to  a 
poem.  And  what  a  moon!  Is  this  the  usual 
Italian  night?" 

"No.  It  is  better  than  usual.  And  that 
must  be  an  American  moon.  It  is  newer, 
brighter,  bigger,  than  the  others.  I  believe  it 
must  have  followed  you  across  the  Atlantic." 

"What  a  stanch  American!  But  that  moon 
was  shining  on  this  hill  many  centuries  before 
America  was  discovered." 

"Yes,  but  it  was  shining  on  America  many 
centuries  before  this  hill  had  risen  from  the 


sea." 


"True." 

With  less  animation,  and  rather  sadly,  she 
continued,  "I  hope  you  do  not  allow  yourself 
to  believe  for  an  instant  that  the  moon,  or 
anything  else  in  any  other  country,  is  to  be 
compared  with  the  corresponding  article  in 
America." 

"Not  in  your  presence." 

"I  am  homesick  for  America — and  always 
have  been.  But  mamma  loves  Italy.  She  pre 
fers  Italian  to  English.  She  always  calls  me 
28 


A  Moonlit  Garden 

Elizabetta,  and  I  can't  prevent  it.  But  I  call 
myself  Elizabeth,  for  that  is  my  name.  I 
should  like  to  go  to  America  to-night — and  stay 
there.  I  love  all  Americans." 

uNot  all  Americans?" 

"Yes,  all!" 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  in  his  low, 
smooth  voice,  "I  am  afraid  you  don't  know  us 
all." 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Not  the  whole  seventy  millions!" 

"I  know  their  faults  and  virtues,  and  I  love 
them  all." 

"I  hope  I  am  included." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Well,  better  one  seventy  millionth  of  your 
heart  than — none  at  all." 

"You  had  the  whole  of  it  once — that  is,  you 
and  Ginger  between  you." 

"What  became  of  Ginger?" 

"He  died  of  old  age." 

"A  deserving  dog.  And  my  half  was  gradu 
ally  transferred  to  him,  I  suppose?" 

"All,  except  your  seventy  millionth." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  a  silence  followed. 
At  last  he  said, 

29 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Thirteen  years  is  a  very  long  time." 

"Indeed,  it  is!" 

"And  now  that  we  meet  again,  it  seems  as 
if — as  if  they  had  not  existed:  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  in  the  meantime." 

"Yes,  so  it  seems  to  me." 

Then,  for  a  time  they  gazed  in  silence  upon 
the  calm,  round  moon.  Both  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  night,  and  its  soothing  influence.  And 
those  figures  in  the  wall  in  front,  seemed,  in 
this  silvery  flood,  four  Olympian  spirits  that 
might  awake  if  the  silence  were  disturbed. 

At  last  the  maiden  spoke.  "You  were  a 
funny  little  boy.  And  rather  bad,  too.  You 
got  me  into  lots  of  scrapes." 

"Oh!" 

"You  always  looked  so  good — so  round- 
faced  and  cherubic — that  you  deceived  people. 
But  you  were  bad.  Oh,  yes!  You  were  so 
horribly  truthful,  too.  You  would  never  tell 
the  least  kind  of  a  fib  even  to  save  the  life  of  a 
friend.  Yes,  you  were  very  exasperating  at 
times.  Perhaps  you  remember  the  raft  we 
made  for  the  duck  pond." 

"As  if  it  were  yesterday.  Two  barrels  and 
an  old  door." 

30 


A  Moonlit  Garden 

"And  you  made  me  go  out  on  it  with  you." 

"It  was  you  who  made  me  go." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  was:  but  you  tipped  us 
both  over,  anyway." 

The  young  man  said  nothing. 

"Didn't  you?" 

Very  gently  he  replied,  "You  know  I  did 
not." 

She  laughed.  "Yes,  I  know  you  did  not. 
But  we  both  got  an  awful  soaking  and  had  to 
wade  ashore." 

He  chuckled.  "I  remember  all  that.  And 
your  mother  came  along  and  was  very  angry 
when — "  he  stopped,  cleared  his  throat,  but  left 
the  speech  unfinished.  He  had  remembered 
suddenly — and  with  a  blush,  invisible  in  the 
moonlight — that  he  and  his  little  friend,  in 
fear  of  punishment,  had  spread  all  their  clothes 
on  the  grass  to  dry;  and  it  being  a  warm  day, 
he  and  she,  clad  only  in  their  innocence,  were 
sitting  on  the  bank  when  an  outraged  parent 
hove  in  sight.  Possibly  Betty  Farnham  re 
membered  too,  for  she  appeared  to  lose  interest 
in  that  episode.  And  she  said,  in  a  more  serious 
tone, 

"How  splendid  it  is,  Morris,  that  you  should 
31 


The  Villa  Claudia 

get  on  so  well  in  your  work !  Only  twenty- four, 
and  Mr.  Goddard  has  already  given  you  an  in 
terest  in  the  business." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  very  lucky." 

"Lucky!  Very  clever,  you  mean.  Very  use 
ful,  reliable,  intelligent,  industrious,  and  all  the 
other  good  things.  I  do  like  men  who  amount 
to  something!  I  have  heard  all  about  it,  and 
we  have  been  proud  of  you." 

These  words,  to  the  youth,  caused  a  joyful 
thrill;  and  Betty  Farnham  would  have  seen,  by 
daylight,  the  flush  of  pleasure  they  brought  into 
his  face.  While  he  hesitated  for  a  reply,  there 
came  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel  walk 
behind  them;  then  a  woman's  voice,  very  gen 
tle  and  somewhat  plaintive, 

"Are  you  there,  Elizabetta?" 


Ill 


33 


"Pis  not  Imperial  Rome 

But  quiet  Tibur  that  delights  me  now. 


Horace. 


34 


Ill 

FRA    DIAVOLO'S    FLUTE 

THE  girl  arose  and  faced  about.  "Yes, 
mamma,  and  who  do  you  think  is 
here?" 

As  Morris  stood  up  and  regarded  the  ap 
proaching  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  black  velvet 
dress  he  recognized  at  once  the  dainty,  grace 
ful,  and  always  somewhat  fragile,  Mrs.  Farn- 
ham  of  his  boyhood.  But  time  had  brought 
melancholy  changes;  more  melancholy,  perhaps, 
than  either  she  or  her  daughter  fully  realized. 
The  moon  of  course  gave  a  pallor  to  all  things, 
but  this  little  lady  seemed  so  slight,  so  frail — 
almost  ethereal — that  the  young  man  was  grate 
ful  to  the  darkness  for  concealing  the  surprise 
and  pain  that  came  into  his  face. 

She  looked  searchingly  at  the  new  arrival, 
and  came  nearer. 

"Don't  you  recognize  him,  mamma?" 

»  35 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Madame  Capodilista  slowly  shook  her  head. 
And  the  moon,  as  it  illumined  her  face,  also 
made  clear  to  Morris  that  this  mother  was  not 
pleased  at  finding  her  daughter  alone  in  the 
garden  with  an  unexpected  guest. 

"Speak  to  her!"  cried  Betty  Farnham.  "Say 
something,  but  don't  tell  your  name.  See  if 
she  won't  guess." 

Now,  to  strike  with  dumbness  an  embar 
rassed  youth,  there  is  nothing  more  effective, 
perhaps,  than  a  command  to  say  something — 
and,  above  all,  to  a  lady  who  is,  apparently,  dis 
approving  of  him.  But  Morris  cleared  his 
throat  and  tried  hard  to  frame  a  sentence. 

"Speak !  Say  something !"  insisted  the  daugh 
ter.  And  she  waved  a  hand  to  hurry  him  up. 

Again  he  cleared  his  throat.  "Your  mother 
would — would  hardly  be  likely  to  remember 
me  after  so  many  years." 

Morris  Lane's  manner  of  speech  had  its 
peculiarities.  His  voice  was  low  and  very 
quiet:  and  he  spoke  slowly,  as  if  choosing  his 
words.  And  in  his  tone  there  was  the  same 
smooth,  indefinable,  half-musical  quality  that 
amused  Betty  Farnham  every  time  he  laughed 
rather  chuckled. 

36 


Fra  Diavolo's  Flute 

"Why,  it  is  Morris  Lane!"  exclaimed  the 
lady,  extending  a  hand  as  she  stepped  nearer 
for  a  better  look  at  his  face.  Betty  Farnham 
was  delighted. 

"There!  I  knew  you  would  guess!  Yes, 
mamma,  it's  that  fat  little  boy  grown  up.  And 
not  too  much  grown  up,  either." 

Madame  Capodilista  gave  him  a  cordial 
welcome.  "Indeed,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you 
again,  Morris.  When  did  you  come  to  Tivoli  ?" 

"This  morning,  with  a  friend.  We  walked 
here  from  Hadrian's  Villa." 

"And  how  long  do  you  stay?" 

"Oh — a  day  or  two.  Just  long  enough  to 
see  the  town  and  visit  Horace's  Farm." 

"Well,  you  must  come  and  stay  with  us,  and 
prolong  your  visit:  you  and  your  friend." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Farnham,  but  my 
friend " 

"Of  course  you  must  come,  Morris!"  ex 
claimed  the  daughter.  "The  idea  of  your  not 
coming!  Insist  upon  it,  mamma.  Make  him!" 

"Yes,  I  insist,"  said  Madame  Capodilista. 
"You  really  must  move  over  to-morrow  morn 
ing." 

"But  my  friend  is  not  here.  He  was  called 
37 


The  Villa  Claudia 

back  to  Rome  by  a  telegram,  and  when  he  re 
turns  he — might " 

"Think  it  a  bore,"  suggested  the  daughter. 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Morris. 

"Or,  think  he  was  not  wanted.  But  he  is 
wanted  if  he  is  a  friend  of  yours.  Is  he  nice?" 

"Oh,  yes!     He  is  a  splendid  fellow." 

"American?" 

"He  is  an  Englishman." 

"That's  bad." 

"Why,  Elizabetta!"  exclaimed  the  mother. 
"How  silly  you  are!  And  how  rude!" 

"I  only  mean  that  Americans  are  the  best; 
and  that  if  he  is  not  an  American,  it  doesn't 
matter  much  what  he  is." 

"You  are  very  silly.  What  is  his  name, 
Morris?" 

"Hollowell.     Lydon  Hollowell." 

"Well,"  said  Madame  Capodilista,  "you  and 
your  baggage  must  come  to-morrow  morning, 
Morris,  and  you  can  meet  your  friend  at  the 
station  in  the  afternoon  and  bring  him  home 
with  you." 

But  Morris  seemed  in  doubt.  "Really,  it  is 
an  imposition  to  quarter  ourselves  on  you  in  that 
fashion." 

38 


Fra  Diavolo's  Flute 

Madame  Capodilista  raised  a  hand  in  pro 
test.  "Say  no  more  about  it.  We  should  feel 
very  much  hurt  if  you  denied  us  this  pleasure." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Farnham " 

"Capodilista — "  suggested  the  daughter. 

"Of  course! — I  beg  your  pardon " 

"Don't  mind  her,  Morris.  She  is  a  very  for 
ward  little  girl.  But  we  must  not  stay  too  long 
in  this  night  air.  Come,  let  us  go  into  the 
house,  where  we  can  get  a  better  look  at  you." 

As  they  turned  away,  the  flute,  which  Morris 
had  been  hearing  at  intervals,  suddenly  raised 
its  plaintive  voice  just  beyond  the  garden  wall, 
in  the  road  below. 

Betty  stopped.  "There's  poor  old  Fra  Dia- 
volo." 

"Fra  Diavolo,"  repeated  Morris.  "So  it  is. 
I  have  been  trying  to  remember  what  opera  that 
air  belongs  to." 

"But  we  call  the  old  man  himself  'Fra  Dia 
volo'  because  it  is  the  only  air  he  plays.  And 
he  has  no  other  name." 

"He  plays  it  mighty  well,"  said  Morris. 

"I  must  give  him  something,"  said  the  girl. 

Her  mother  restrained  her.  "No,  let  him 
go  to-night.  He  could  not  find  it  in  the  dark." 
39 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"But  I  have  it  done  up  in  a  piece  of  white 
paper,  all  ready." 

"Then  he  is  a  regular  thing/'  said  Morris. 

"Yes,  he  comes  every  night." 

"He  is  one  of  Elizabetta's  admirers,"  said 
Madame  Capodilista. 

"No,  it  is  the  villa  and  the  garden  he  is  in 
love  with,  not  me.  He  never  looks  at  me,  nor 
even  thanks  me  for  my  gifts." 

"Love  is  surely  blind,"  said  Morris.  "A 
wise  beggar  would  encourage  you." 

"But  Fra  Diavolo  is  not  a  beggar." 

Her  mother  protested.  "Why,  Elizabettal 
What  is  he  if  not  a  beggar?" 

"But  a  beggar  begs,  mamma.  Fra  Diavolo 
never  asks  for  anything.  If  you  toss  him  money 
he  may  forget  to  pick  it  up." 

"Then  his  disguise  is  very  clever." 

Madame  Capodilista  and  Morris  Lane  stood 
watching  the  benefactress  while  she  ran  back  to 
the  balustrade,  took  something  white  from  her 
pocket  and  tossed  it  into  the  street  below.  As 
she  rejoined  them  and  they  started  again  toward 
the  house,  Madame  Capodilista  in  the  centre, 
Betty  continued  her  defence  of  the  flutist. 
"Truly  poor  Fra  Diavolo  is  not  mercenary. 
40 


Fra  Diavolo's   Flute 

He  used  to  play  here  for  months  before  we 
gave  him  a  copper.  That  tune  is  the  only  one 
he  seems  to  know.  Yet  he  must  have  been  a 
good  musician  before  he  lost  his  mind.  Do 
you  think  it  likely,  Morris,  that  a  man  could 
play  one  piece  so  well  and  know  no  others?" 

"I  should  think  not.  Was  he  a  professional, 
originally?" 

"Nobody  knows.  He  is  our  Tivoli  mystery. 
Most  of  the  beggars  here  have  grown  up  in  the 
town,  but  this  old  man  appeared  a  few  years 
ago,  and  seemed  to  come  from  nowhere." 

"That  is  a  long  journey,"  said  Morris. 

"But  that  is  precisely  where  he  comes  from. 
No  other  town  has  ever  had  him.  The  Tivoli 
authorities  tried  hard  to  look  up  his  past  and 
send  him  home,  but  there  is  not  a  district  in 
Italy  that  knows  him." 

"The  Eternal  City  might  lose  him  and  be 
none  the  wiser." 

"He  was  never  seen  in  Rome." 

"Rome  is  a  big  place." 

"Indeed,  it  is!  But  between  the  police  and 
the  various  charities  no  beggar  escapes.  And 
the  city  of  Rome  has  no  record  of  him." 

"Were  there  no  letters  in  his  pockets,  nor 


The  Villa  Claudia 

papers  of  any  kind  to   identify  him?"   asked 
Morris. 

"No.  Signer  Accoramboni  says  he  had  no 
coat  on.  That  it  was  very  hot  weather — in 
midsummer — and  that  he  may  have  thrown  it 
aside  for  comfort,  with  his  letters  and  papers 
in  the  pockets.  You  see  his  mind  was  gone." 

"Pretty  tough,"  said  Morris.  "But  it  does 
seem  as  if  they  might  have  identified  him.  Did 
no  old  man  disappear  about  that  time?" 

"Nobody  that  resembled  him  in  any  way." 

As  Morris  Lane  surveyed  the  moonlit  villa 
and  the  statues  on  every  side,  standing  forth 
in  ghostly  relief  against  the  shadows  of  the 
night,  he  said, 

"But  this  unaccountable  Fra  Diavolo  and  his 
extraordinary  history  all  harmonize  with  their 
surroundings.  To  me  nothing  would  be  sur 
prising  here  in  Tivoli.  Your  own  house  and 
grounds  seem  full  of  secrets.  And,  by  the 
way,"  he  added,  "you  may  be  interested  to 
hear  that  your  villa  is  haunted." 

Madame  Capodilista  stopped  and  faced 
about.  "Who  told  you  that?"  she  exclaimed 
in  a  voice  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"One  of  the  guides,"  he  answered. 
42 


Fra  Diavolo's  Flute 

"What  did  he  say?  Tell  me  just  what  he 
said!" 

She  spoke  rapidly,  with  a  note  of  alarm  in 
her  voice.  Morris  was  a  little  taken  aback  by 
this  effect  of  his  words.  And  he  was  further 
embarrassed  when  Betty,  who  stood  behind  her 
mother,  shook  her  head  and  raised  a  finger  to 
her  lips.  The  moonlight  on  her  face  revealed 
a  frown  of  warning. 

Although  somewhat  mystified  by  these  em 
phatic  signs,  he  answered,  quietly,  "I  could  not 
make  out  just  what  the  man  was  trying  to  say, 
in  his  broken  English.  But  it  was  some  rigma 
role,  which  he  evidently  did  not  believe  him 
self.  Almost  every  town  in  the  world  has  at 
least  one  haunted  house  so  I  did  not  pay  much 
attention  to  him." 

"But  you  just  said  yourself  that  it  looked  as 
if  there  was  something  dreadful  about  it.  What 
did  you  mean?" 

"Oh!     Did  I  say  that?" 

"Something  very  like  it." 

"No,  mamma,  Morris  did  not  say  there  was 
anything  dreadful  about  the  villa." 

"I  only  meant,"  said  Morris,  "that  Tivoli  is 
so  very  ancient — and  so  much  has  happened 

43 


The  Villa  Claudia 

here  in  times  gone  by,  that  every  spot  of  ground 
has  its  history.  That  this  villa,  like  everything 
else  in  Italy,  must  have  a  romance  of  its  own 
— that  we  might  hear  interesting  things  if  it 
could  only  talk." 

Betty  put  an  arm  about  her  mother's  waist 
and  said,  in  a  gentle  voice, 

"We  were  speaking  of  Fra  Diavolo,  were  we 
not?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  we  were."  But  in  her  moth 
er's  voice  were  still  traces  of  irritation.  "And 
a  most  disgusting  old  person  he  is.  His  tune 
becomes  exceedingly  monotonous." 

Then,  with  her  two  companions,  she  again 
moved  leisurely  toward  the  house,  preceded  by 
three  elongated  shadows — as  from  attenuated 
giants — grotesque  and  very  dark  against  the 
moonlit  walk. 

The  silence  of  the  garden  remained  undis 
turbed  save  by  the  splashing  of  the  fountain, 
and  by  the  plaintive  utterings  of  Fra  Diavolo's 
flute. 


44 


45 


Such  idle  themes  no  more  can  move, 
Nor  anything  but  what's  of  high  import— 
And  what's  of  high  import  but  love  ? 


Horace, 


IV 

PARADISO 

WHEN  the  sun,  next  morning,  looked 
in  on  Morris  Lane  at  his  room  in  the 
Hotel  Sibilla,  its  re-enforcement  of 
warmth  and  cheer  seemed  superfluous  and  un 
called  for.  The  young  man's  heart  was  already 
warm;  his  soul  aglow.  Pleasant  inward  fires 
had  been  kindled  the  night  before  and  now  were 
blazing  merrily.  To  him  it  mattered  little 
whether  the  sun  shone  or  the  tempest  howled. 
The  Falls  of  Niagara  would  have  made  but 
slight  effect  upon  the  welcome  conflagration 
that  now  devoured  him. 

While  bathing  he  sang  gently  to  himself. 
And  the  melodies  he  hummed  were  of  a  joyous 
nature.  When  he  cut  himself  in  shaving,  and 
later  burst  a  vital  button-hole  to  his  collar,  still 
he  murmured  happy  tunes,  and  with  a  radiant 
face.  The  Fra  Diavolo  air  was  always  creep- 
47 


The  Villa  Claudia 

ing  in.  It  brought  memories  of  a  moonlit  gar 
den — and  a  woman's  voice. 

Morris  was  ever  careless  about  his  dress.  So, 
when  at  last  he  cast  a  perfunctory  and  rapid 
glance  into  his  mirror — more  from  habit  than 
from  interest — he  smiled  with  blind  approval 
upon  a  badly  fitting  collar  and  a  clumsy  tie. 
His  untamed  yellow  hair  with  its  crooked  part 
— like  the  course  of  lightning  through  a  corn 
field — had  never  disturbed  the  owner.  The 
full,  round,  boyish  face  with  its  tranquil  eyes 
and  its  confiding  honesty  was  almost  handsome : 
and  so  kindly  and  unassuming  the  expression 
that  guileful  strangers  often  mistook  its  benevo 
lence  and  simplicity  for  want  of  experience. 
Beggars  instinctively  marked  him  for  their  prey. 

Having  a  genius  for  machinery,  with  an  in 
ventiveness  and  ingenuity  unusual  even  in  New 
England,  he  had  already  perfected  several  de 
tails  of  considerable  importance  to  a  certain 
cotton-mill  in  Massachusetts.  These  services 
had  been  appreciated,  and  his  prospects  were 
correspondingly  brilliant.  Change  from  work 
and  relaxation  he  sought,  whenever  leisure  al 
lowed,  in  the  study  of  art  and  music.  He  had 
even  written  verse  that  was  not  unreasonably 


Paradise 

bad:  and  with  the  violin — as  he  himself  had 
said — he  could  "hold  his  own  with  the  poorest 
professional." 

Being  a  dreamer,  he  dreamed,  that  morning, 
more  than  usual.  He  dreamed  through  his 
breakfast,  through  his  packing  and  his  settling 
up ;  and  he  dreamed  through  the  winding  streets 
of  Tivoli  to  the  home  of  Betty  Farnham. 
When  he  entered  the  Villa  Claudia  information 
was  conveyed  to  him  by  a  smiling  servant — 
first  in  Italian,  then  by  pantomime — that  Ma 
dame  Capodilista  had  not  yet  descended  from 
her  chamber;  and  that  the  Signorina  Elizabetta 
was  in  the  garden.  So  into  the  garden  he  went. 

As  he  started  down  the  gravel  walk  in  search 
of  the  Signorina,  he  heard,  from  behind  a  mass 
of  shrubbery  on  his  left,  the  voice  of  the  person 
he  sought.  She  was  speaking  in  Italian.  Some 
words  in  a  man's  voice  also  came  to  him.  Not 
knowing  who  might  be  with  her,  and  fearing 
to  intrude,  he  stood  and  looked  about  him. 
And  as  he  did  so,  he  drew  a  long,  deep  breath 
of  pure  delight.  For,  to  a  dreamer  and  a  poet 
here  was  feasting  for  the  senses. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  garden,  from  the  villa 
to  the  terrace  wall,  and  reaching  high  into  the 
49 


The  Villa  Claudia 

air,  stood  rows  of  gigantic  cypresses,  their  dark- 
green,  sombre  foliage  in  striking  contrast  to 
the  gorgeous  coloring  beneath — masses  of  white 
and  crimson  roses,  and  beds  of  purple  violets. 
And  scattered  everywhere,  in  lavish  profusion 
amid  the  shrubbery,  all  in  restful  harmony  with 
the  rich  verdure  of  the  acacias  and  Judas  trees, 
were  marble  figures,  busts,  vases,  columns,  sin 
gly  and  in  groups;  their  primal  whiteness  now 
softened  by  the  passing  centuries  to  an  ivory 
yellow.  They  seemed  a  natural  element  of  the 
garden — works  of  time  and  not  of  man.  Over 
all  was  an  air  of  antiquity  and  repose.  These 
various  statues  and  marble  fragments,  which 
were  merely  suggestions  by  moonlight,  now 
stood  forth  in  the  glare  of  day  as  objects  of 
exquisite  beauty  and  of  historic  interest. 

While  Morris,  in  a  sort  of  rapture,  stood 
gazing  upon  these  things,  a  thrush  alighted 
upon  a  marble  head  of  Trajan,  close  beside  him, 
and  proceeded  to  fill  the  garden  with  its  song. 
The  young  man  closed  his  eyes  and  slowly  in 
haled  the  quivering,  languorous,  flower-scented 
air.  To  him,  already  dazed  with  love,  this  orgy 
of  art  and  color,  of  sunshine,  of  music  and  of 
heavenly  hope  was  intoxicating.  Creation  had 

50 


Paradiso 

never  been  so  joyful,  so  inspiriting.     Life  was 
too  good  to  be  true. 

And  beyond  the  garden — beyond  this  blaz 
ing,  sunlit  mass  of  color — the  air  over  the  Cam- 
pagna  became  soft,  mysterious, — a  golden  haze. 
It  invited  one  to  repose,  and  dreams;  and  gave 
no  suggestion  of  cotton-mills  or  any  other  hu 
man  labor.  It  spoke — or  rather,  murmured  in 
a  lazy  way — of  things  quite  different  from  ma 
chinery.  In  this  mellow  glow  that  softened  yet 
illumined  all  things,  there  was  something  in 
spiring,  for  to  Morris  all  the  world,  just  now, 
was  radiant  with 

The  light  that  lies 
In  woman's  eyes. 

During  a  little  silence  that  occurred  behind 
the  shrubbery  he  heard  a  sound,  as  of  someone 
spading  earth.  So,  probably,  the  other  person 
was  the  gardener.  And  when  Morris  ventured 
nearer  he  found  this  gardener  to  be  the  man  he 
had  seen  the  night  before  standing  by  the  little 
door  to  the  garden — the  big  man  with  the 
round  shoulders  and  very  small  head  who  was 
talking  with  a  woman.  Now  he  was  down  upon 
his  knees,  scooping  earth  with  a  big  trowel,  the 
4  5I 


The  Villa  Claudia 

girl  standing  beside  him  in  a  white  dress — a 
pleasant  picture  in  the  morning  sunshine.  Two 
wrestling  cupids,  in  marble,  served  as  back 
ground;  and  around  about,  on  every  side,  were 
masses  of  gorgeous  flowers. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  and  closed  his  eyes: 
then  opened  them  again  for  a  fresh  impression 
of  the  picture. 

He  stepped  a  little  nearer. 

"Good-morning,  Signorina  Elizabetta." 

The  little  lady  turned  about  and  her  face  lit 
up.  Transferring  a  flower-pot  from  her  right 
hand  to  her  left  she  came  eagerly  toward  him. 

"Why,  Morris!  How  nice  to  have  you  here 
again !"  And,  for  an  instant,  she  allowed  her 
hand  to  rest  in  his,  returning  the  pressure.  The 
felicity  of  this  contact  and  the  warmth  of  her 
greeting  caused  a  thrill  of  joy:  and  with  Mor 
ris  the  outward  manifestation  of  such  a  thrill 
was  a  rush  of  color  to  his  face.  She  saw  it  and 
smiled:  then,  in  mischievous  delight,  exclaimed, 

"Ah,  those  same,  old,  funny  little  blushes! 
In  the  daytime  I  can  see  them;  and  I  suppose 
they  were  going  on  all  last  evening.  So,  you 
haven't  changed  a  bit." 

Whereupon  the  color  deepened,  and  he  tried 
52 


Paradise 

to  frown.  She  pointed  a  finger  at  him.  "I 
should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  to  blush 
that  way;  like  a  girl." 

"I  am  ashamed." 

Again  she  laughed,  with  irrepressible  merri 
ment.  "But  I  love  it!  It  takes  me  back  to  my 
childhood.  You  are  the  same  cherubic,  ingenu 
ous  Morris.  And  you  always  will  be.  You 
can't  help  it  if  you  live  to  be  a  hundred.  And 
I  wouldn't  have  you  different  for  the  world!" 

As  she  placed  the  flower-pot  upon  the  ground 
and  turned  again  toward  him,  a  frown,  a  smile, 
and  another  blush,  all  crowded  for  supremacy 
in  the  young  man's  face.  Slowly  along  the 
gravel  walk  they  started  toward  the  house.  Al 
though  somewhat  absorbed  in  a  struggle  to 
regain  his  self-possession,  Morris  had  already 
discovered  that  the  little  person  by  his  side, 
while  interesting  by  moonlight,  was  ten  times 
more  so  by  the  light  of  day.  Her  fresh  color, 
the  constant  changes  in  her  frank,  sensitive  face, 
all  worked  a  spell  which  he  made  no  effort  to  re 
sist.  He  was  amazed  that  any  number  of  years 
could  achieve  such  wonders.  And  it  was  hard  to 
realize  that  this  was  the  brown-faced,  plump, 
irrepressible  little  hoyden  with  whom  he  had 
53 


The  Villa  Claudia 

played  and  fought.  Now  she  was  matured  and 
softened — a  dazzling  renaissance — with  all  the 
primitive  graces  in  full  blossom,  and  new  ones 
added.  In  her  low  voice  and  rapid  speech  he 
found  an  ancient  charm  whose  existence  he  had 
forgotten. 

As  for  himself,  he  seemed  to  have  entered, 
suddenly,  upon  a  new  career,  all  his  previous 
life  being  a  blank.  In  fact,  a  miraculous  change- 
had  come  over  the  universe  within  a  very  few 
hours.  Colors  were  brighter;  the  air  purer — 
more  exhilarating.  Had  he  so  desired  he  could 
have  drawn  a  long  breath  and  floated  upward 
into  the  Blue.  But  earth  to-day  was  not  a 
place  to  leave.  No  heaven — Christian,  Bud 
dhist,  or  Mohammedan — could  compare  with 
it.  He  agreed  with  Byron — 

Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven, 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  Angels  shared,  by  Alia  given, 


With  a  mighty  effort  of  his  will,  and  in  obe 
dience   to    an    instinct   common    to    all   human 
lovers,  he  looked  carelessly  about  the  garden  to 
show  his  interest  in  other  matters,  and  his  in- 
54 


Paradise 

difference  to  the  one  thing  in  life  worth  living 
for.  And  he  remarked,  politely, 

"What  a  beautiful  garden!" 

"Yes,  it  is.  Signer  Accoramboni  calls  it 
Paradiso.  He  says  it  comes  very  near  his  con 
ception  of  heaven.  So  he  tries  to  be  good,  as 
he  wishes  to  have  one  like  it,  when  he  dies. 
But  it  is  not  my  idea  of  heaven.  I  prefer  your 
father's  old  garden  in  Massachusetts." 

"Oh!"  he  protested.  "As  if  there  was  any 
comparison !" 

"Of  course  this  is  more  beautiful  in  one  way, 
but  I  have  often  sat  here  and  closed  my  eyes 
and  tried  to  think  I  was  in  that  other  garden 
with  all  the  New  England  flowers." 

"What  a  persistent  patriot!  You  may  have 
more  affection  for  the  other,  but,  really,  you  are 
a  little  unfair  to  this  one."  Then,  as  his  eyes 
rested  upon  an  ancient  Roman  chair,  close  at 
hand,  elaborately  carved  with  sphinxes'  wings 
for  arms,  "Were  all  these  things  here  when  you 
bought  the  place?" 

"Yes,  they  were  here,  but  all  were  not  in 
sight.  Many  were  dug  up  in  the  garden." 

"What  luck!" 

"Those  two  busts  at  the  ends  of  the  terrace, 
55 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Juno  and  Servius,  were  found  in  cleaning  the 
old  well.  And  the  reclining  figure  off  there  at 
the  end  of  that  path  is  Faustina.  And  where 
do  you  think  we  discovered  her?" 

"I  could  never  guess." 

"Behind  a  fireplace.  She  was  broken  into 
several  pieces  and  built  into  one  of  the  chimneys 
of  the  house." 

"Think  of  it!  Well,  we  don't  find  such 
things  in  New  England  houses.  But  what  was 
this  place  originally?  A  sculptor's  yard?" 

"No.  A  queen's  yard.  You  know  Zenobia 
lived  at  Tivoli  after  she  was  brought  to  Rome." 

"No.     I  did  not  know  it." 

"Well,  she  did.  Aurelian  gave  her  a  villa 
here,  but  its  location  was  never  known  until 
about  a  year  ago.  We  were  having  new  pipes 
put  in  for  the  fountain  and  the  workmen  dug 
up  a  bust  of  a  woman,  just  off  there  by  that 
bronze  vase  with  the  plant.  And  as  several 
Syrian  ornaments  had  already  been  discovered 
here,  and  coins  with  her  husband's  head  on  them 
— King  Odenatus — the  wise  men  concluded  that 
the  foundations  of  our  villa  were  a  part  of 
Zenobia's  house." 

"Well,  that  is  interesting!"  exclaimed  Mor- 

56 


Paradise 

ris.  "Mighty  interesting!  So  Zenobia  used  to 
sit  in  this  garden !  She  probably  strolled  about 
and  bossed  the  gardener  just  as  you  do.  And 
she  bossed  the  very  ancestors  of  your  old  man 
there,  perhaps. " 

"Perhaps.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Why,  the  whole  place  is  crammed  with  his 
tory.  And  think  of  all  that  has  happened  here 
since!" 

"Yes,  but  much  more  happened  before  than 
since.  Do  you  see  that  marble  tablet  over  there, 
in  a  niche  of  the  old  wall?" 

"With  a  split  through  the  middle,  and  one 
end  gone?" 

"Yes.  Well,  the  inscription  on  it  is  the  rec 
ord  of  a  feast,  or  a  celebration  of  some  kind, 
that  occurred  on  this  very  spot,  about  three 
hundred  years  before  Zenobia  came.  There 
was  a  villa  here  then,  a  building  with  columns 
around  the  outside.  The  pedestals  of  some  of 
the  columns  are  still  standing  in  a  semicircle  in 
our  cellar,  beneath  the  kitchen." 

Morris  listened  with  eager  interest.  "What 
does  the  inscription  say?" 

"It  is  a  very  brief  account  of  a  series  of  ban 
quets,  with  the  names  of  the  two  men  who  gave 
57 


The  Villa  Claudia 

them,  or  presided, — or  whatever.  And  who  do 
you  think  those  two  men  were?" 

"I  could  never  guess." 

"Horace  and  Maecenas." 

"What,  the  Horace?" 

"Yes." 

"Gracious!  That  is  exciting!  So  Horace, 
my  own  little  Horace,  used  to  come  here.  Very 
likely  he  sat  on  some  of  these  marble  seats." 

"Very  likely.  But  it  may  not  have  been  a 
garden  then."  She  smiled  as  she  added,  "Hor 
ace  was  quite  modern — for  us.  Here  in  Tibur 
we  look  on  Romulus  and  Remus  as  parve- 


nues." 


"Yes,  I  know  Tivoli  is  older  than  Rome. 
But  where  was  that  inscription  found?" 

"Among  the  ruins  of  the  columns,  just  be 
neath  the  kitchen." 

"Oh,  I  must  study  it  myself.  And  I  shall 
prowl  around  your  cellar.  May  I?" 

"Of  course  you  may.  Prowl  wherever  you 
like." 

"What  a  foundation  for  a  kitchen !"  mur 
mured  the  young  man.  "The  shades  of  Hor 
ace  and  Maecenas  may  be  down  there  now !  I 
could  believe  anything  of  this  place." 

58 


Paradise 

Betty  stopped.  Into  her  eyes  came  a  look 
of  trouble.  Then,  in  a  lower  voice, 

uThe  spirit  of  Horace?  That  would  be  a 
blessing  in  this — this  horrid  house." 

"Horrid!  Why  horrid ?"  After  asking  the 
question  Morris  recalled  the  dark  insinuations 
of  the  guide.  He  also  recalled  Madame  Capo- 
dilista's  annoyance  when  he  alluded  to  them. 
But  Betty,  instead  of  explaining,  glanced  up 
ward,  to  the  open  window  of  her  mother's 
chamber,  and  started  forward  again.  In  the 
same  low  tone  she  said, 

"I  will  tell  you  later,  perhaps.  But  don't 
speak  of  it  when  mamma  is  about." 

Again,  and  with  increasing  interest,  Morris  re 
garded  the  smiling  fagade  of  the  Villa  Claudia. 
As  an  American  he  was  unfamiliar  with  kitchen 
cellars  that  yielded  Roman  emperors  and  poets. 
The  villa,  while  less  ghostly  than  by  moonlight, 
still  suggested,  even  at  noonday,  the  possession 
of  secrets  of  its  own: — and  it  still  appeared  a 
fit  abode  for  any  mystery.  This  effect  was 
helped,  perhaps,  by  its  material — blocks  of  mar 
ble  quarried  when  Rome  was  young,  and  serving 
originally  for  a  temple  to  Bacchus — now  mel 
lowed  by  centuries  of  sun  and  storm.  After  an 

59 


The  Villa  Claudia 

unknown  period  of  oblivion  these  yellow  blocks 
still  glistened  in  the  soft  October  air.  To  the 
young  American  there  was  eloquence  in  their 
silent  faces.  Surely  these  stones  had  much  to 
tell! 

Yet  notwithstanding  this  impression  of  his 
tory  withheld  or  history  concealed — the  Villa 
Claudia  presented  a  cheerful  exterior.  The 
proportions  were  perfect;  its  details  charm 
ing.  Exquisite  carvings  wandered  along  its  cor 
nice  and  about  the  three  arches  in  the  centre. 
The  two  little  oval  niches  with  their  busts,  in 
the  second  story,  were  playful  in  design.  To 
the  artistic  sense  all  was  more  than  satisfying. 
Nevertheless,  as  Morris  feasted  upon  these 
beauties  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  the  Villa 
Claudia,  while  polite,  was  laughing  at  him — 
and  at  all  other  temporary  things.  But  this  feel 
ing,  as  he  very  well  knew,  owed  its  origin  to 
the  words  of  the  garrulous  guide.  At  all  events, 
the  villa  with  its  gardens  impressed  him  in  a 
peculiar  manner.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  to 
know  them  better.  And  this,  perhaps,  might 
be  the  natural  thirst  of  the  archaeologist.  For 
in  archaeology,  that  most  scholarly  of  intoxi 
cants,  he  had  freely  indulged.  Moreover,  of  all 
the  poets,  Horace  was  his  favorite. 
60 


Paradiso 

But  Horace  and  the  other  poets  combined — 
with  art  and  literature  and  all  history  thrown 
in — were  pitiful  stuff  to  the  living  thing  beside 
him.  To  all  her  words  he  listened  with  the 
keenest  pleasure;  and  yet,  no  matter  what  she 
said,  he  found  the  personality  of  the  speaker  of 
still  greater  interest.  But,  withal,  he  experi 
enced  a  vague  uneasiness.  His  felicity  was  too 
exalted;  too  acute  and  too  unfamiliar  in  its 
nature.  Also,  there  were  certain  doubts  accom 
panying.  Countless  cases  were  recorded — and 
well  authenticated — in  which  man's  affection 
had  not  been  returned.  In  short,  Morris  was 
in  full  enjoyment  of  the  "pleasure  that  is  almost 
a  pain."  However,  he  murmured  to  himself 
these  words  of  Hafiz  the  poet: 

Whenas  thou  findest  whom  thou  lovest 
Bid  farewell  to  the  world  and  its  cares. 


61 


What  if  our  ancient  love  return 
And  bind  us  with  a  brazen  yoke  ? 


Horace. 


62 


V 


I .  r  1. 


INFERNO 

ON  the  terrace,  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
they  turned  and  stood  in  silence,  con 
templating  the  garden  and  the  many 
tinted  Campagna  that  lay  beyond.  Far  away, 
on  the  horizon,  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's, — a 
luminous  speck  dimly  visible  through  the  noon 
day  haze, — marked  the  position  of  the  Eternal 
City.  And  the  thrush,  perched  upon  the  head 
of  Trajan,  continued  to  fill  the  air  with  melody. 

With  half-closed  eyes  Morris  breathed  a  sigh, 
and  with  it  a  murmur  of  supreme  content.  "To 
me,  this  house  and  garden,  and  all  that  back 
ground  with  its  splendid  history,  have  a  mighty 
fascination.  I  would  ask  nothing  better  than 
to  quit  the  everlasting  Yankee  competition  and 
live  my  life  in  such  a  place  as  this." 

UO,  Morris!"  exclaimed  Betty,  straighten 
ing  up  and  becoming  severe.  "What  an  ignoble 


Inferno 

thought !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  aban 
don  your  country?  give  up  the  splendid  fight 
for  success  and  distinction  ?" 

"And  lucre?" 

"Well,  yes,  lucre,  if  you  wish.  Better  strug 
gle  for  lucre  than  be  a  drone." 

"You  prefer  a  hustling  money-grabber  to  a 
cultivated,  entertaining  drone?" 

"Yes." 

Morris  shook  his  head.  "A  little  art  and 
pleasure  are  just  what  the  hustling  Yankee 
needs." 

"But  too  much  art  and  pleasure  do  lots  of 
harm.  The  very  struggle  you  speak  of  makes 
the  man.  Look  at  Fra  Diavolo,  for  instance; 
it  is  the  dissipated,  weak  old  face  of  one  who 
has  lived  only  for  pleasure.  That  is  why  I  pity 
him — he  is  so  utterly  contemptible." 

"Does  Fra  Diavolo,  in  his  face,  wear  the  in 
signia  of  drunkenness?" 

"No — and  yet,  I  suppose  he  does.  He  is  re 
pulsive  in  a  way,  but  he  has  not  the  face  of 
other  drunkards.  It  is  indescribable :  more  sen 
sitive,  with  nothing  brutish  or  animal." 

"But  is  it  any  more  contemptible  than  a  face 
full  of  fuss  and  trouble?" 

65 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Yes:  because  fuss  and  trouble  are  great  de 
velopers." 

"Developers  of  what?" 

"Of  character." 

"Art  and  pleasure  do  it  better." 

"No." 

"But  surely,"  said  Morris,  "we  should  be 
gainers  if  instead  of  seventy  years  of  toil  and 
worry,  with  little  snatches  of  pleasure,  we  could 
omit  all  the  fuss  and  wasted  effort  and  take  only 
the  happy  moments:  say  a  dozen  years  of  un 
diluted  fun." 

"Never!  Never  in  the  world!"  exclaimed 
Betty.  "Why,  half  the  pleasure  is  in  the  re 
ward  of  our  own  effort;  of  helping  others,  and 
the  little  triumphs  of  self-sacrifice." 

"But  my  scheme  would  give  them.  You 
would  have  joys  of  every  kind." 

"No.     You  couldn't  make  it  work,  Morris." 

"I  don't  see  why.  It  is  merely  giving  you  the 
reward  without  the  debasing  scramble." 

"The  cake  without  the  appetite.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  there  is  often  a  deeper  satisfaction 
in  the  struggle  than  in  the  reward." 

"Sometimes.  But  even  your  Fra  Diavolo 
here,  and  other  drunkards — they  get  lots  of  fun 
66 


Inferno 

with  no  effort.  Also  people  who  inherit  piles 
of  money." 

"Drunkards  and  spoiled  children!  You  hit 
it  exactly.  That  is  just  what  your  scheme  would 
result  in!"  She  closed  her  eyes  and  drew  a 
hand  across  her  temples.  "How  curious  that 
you  and  I  should  get  on  to  this  subject!  It 
seems  like  one  of  those  grewsome  repetitions — 
as  if  I  had  been  all  over  it  before  in  a  previous 
existence —  Oh,  yes !  I  remember  now.  It 
was  with  Santovano.  Fra  Diavolo's  face  sug 
gested  it.  There  seems  to  be  something  in  that 
old  man's  face — something,  I  can't  tell  what, 
that  starts  one  thinking." 

"I  hope  to  meet  this  thought-inspiring  drink 
er.  But  who  is  Santovano?  Another  miracu 
lous  beggar?" 

"Santovano!"  And  in  surprise  she  looked 
up  into  his  face.  "Didn't  I  mention  him  last 
night?" 

"Perhaps  you  did,  but  I  don't  remember." 

With  a  smile,  and  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
gives  news  that  is  very  old,  she  said,  "Why,  he 
is  the  man  I  am  to  marry,  three  weeks  from 


to-morrow." 


Into  Morris's  face  came  a  look  of  stupefac- 
5  67 


The  Villa  Claudia 

tion.  Clearer  than  words  it  told  of  an  over 
whelming  shock — of  a  dumb,  pathetic  protest. 
Into  Betty's  own  eyes,  as  she  read  these  things, 
— for  in  his  boyish,  honest  face  was  no  conceal 
ment — there  came  an  expression  of  surprise, 
then  of  sympathy,  both  swiftly  changing  to 
alarm. 

As  she  realized  the  full  significance  of  her 
discovery  the  color  flew  to  her  cheeks.  In  con 
fusion  she  lowered  her  eyes.  With  a  backward 
step,  looking  first  toward  the  house,  then  down 
the  garden  walk,  at  everything  except  the  man 
before  her,  she  said,  at  last,  very  gently,  "I 
thought  I  spoke  last  night  of  my — of  my  wed- 
ding." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice.  Mor 
ris,  at  that  moment,  was  dazed  by  his  own  woe. 
Her  words  seemed  to  arouse  him  from  a  sort 
of  stupor.  "What  did  you  say?  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"I  was  only  saying  that  I  thought  I  had  al 
ready  mentioned  Santovano." 

"Perhaps  you  did.  I  suppose  I  didn't  realize 
— I  mean — I  didn't  hear  it." 

In  silence  Morris  seated  himself  upon  one  of 
the  marble  benches.  She  took  the  place  beside 
68 


Inferno 

him,  and  her  efforts  at  conversation  became 
heroic.  These  efforts  were  fully  appreciated 
and  Morris  tried  to  help.  But  his  heart  was 
heavy:  his  spirit  gone.  At  last  he  arose  and 
announced  his  intention  of  taking  a  stroll  about 
the  town.  In  an  absent-minded  way  he  began 
to  button  up  his  coat.  His  fingers,  she  noticed, 
were  trying  to  attach  his  coat  to  a  button  of  his 
vest.  With  a  smile  she  very  gently  pushed 
away  his  hand  and  arranged  it  as  it  should  be. 
Then  she  gave  it  a  little  tap  and  smoothed  it 
down  in  a  motherly  fashion,  and  frowned  as  she 
said: 

"Clumsy  boy!" 

He  smiled.  "Yes,  I  have  always  known 
that." 

She  followed  him  to  the  front  door  and  let 
him  out.  "Remember,  dejeuner  is  at  one 
o'clock." 

And  she  stood  there  for  a  moment,  watching 
the  juvenile  figure  in  the  suit  of  gray,  until  hid 
den  by  a  neighboring  corner. 

After  closing  the  door,  she  leaned  wearily 
against  it.  For  several  moments  she  remained 
with  closed  eyes  and  drooping  head.  At  last 
she  straightened  up  and  slowly  moved  away. 


The  Villa  Claudia 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  paused  again.  The 
door  to  her  mother's  chamber  was  half  open, 
but  Betty  wished  to  be  alone,  for  a  time — and 
to  think;  and  so,  in  the  hope  of  being  unob 
served,  she  started  quietly  along  the  hall.  But 
Madame  Capodilista  had  good  ears. 

"Is  that  you,  Elizabetta?" 

uYes,  mamma."     And  the  daughter  entered. 

It  was  a  spacious  chamber,  somewhat  formal 
in  design,  its  painted  walls  representing  panels 
of  colored  marbles.  Over  the  four  doors  were 
smaller  panels,  also  painted  in  oil,  in  which 
cupids,  goats  and  dolphins  disported  themselves 
amid  a  profusion  of  fruit  and  flowers  and  ruined 
temples.  At  present  the  blinds  were  lowered, 
giving  a  soothing  half-light  instead  of  the  noon 
day  glare.  The  whole  effect  and  atmosphere  of 
the  apartment  were  those  of  a  chamber  in  some 
eighteenth-century  palace.  A  faint  odor  of 
mignonette  —  Madame  Capodilista's  favorite 
perfume — hovered  in  the  air. 

In  an  easy-chair,  with  cushions  at  her  back, 
and  her  eyes  still  closed,  Madame  Capodilista 
said,  wearily, 

uWho  went  out  a  few  minutes  ago,  Eliza 
betta?" 

70 


Inferno 

"It  was  Morris,  mamma;  he  has  gone  for  a 
stroll  about  the  town." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  with  him?  You  might 
have  shown  him  several  things  of  interest  that 
he  will  never  see  by  himself." 

Betty,  still  standing  near  the  door,  raised  her 
eyebrows  in  amazement.  "Wander  about  the 
streets  alone  with  a  young  man?  Why,  mam 
ma  !  You  forget  les  convenances." 

Her  mother  smiled.  "I  must  have  thought, 
from  Morris  being  here,  that  we  were  still  in 
America." 

"I  wish  we  were!"  was  on  the  daughter's 
lips,  but  she  refrained.  The  too  free  expres 
sion  of  that  sentiment  annoyed  her  mother  and 
often  led  to  arguments.  And  arguments,  the 
watchful  daughter  had  discovered,  were  too  ex 
citing  for  this  invalid.  Involuntarily,  however, 
she  heaved  a  sigh.  "What  a  different  country 
this  would  be  if  all  the  men  were  Americans." 

"The  Italian  women  might  object." 

"No,  mamma,  they  couldn't." 

"Indeed,  they  could !  The  Italian  men  have 
far  better  manners  than  Americans." 

"Their  company  manners,  yes.  But  that 
means  so  little !  For  myself,  I  prefer  the  Amer- 


The  Villa  Claudia 

ican.    He  doesn't  leave  his  manners  at  the  front 
door  as  he  enters  his  own  home." 

This  was  said  in  a  gentle  voice  and  with  a 
good-humored  smile,  but  her  mother,  with  a 
frown,  turned  her  face  toward  the  window. 
"Really,  Elizabetta,  your  wholesale  admiration 
for  everything  American  would  be  laughable  if 
it  were  not  so  very  monotonous.  Morris,  for 
instance,  is  a  very  good  boy,  but  certainly  no 
body  could  call  him  a  polished  man  of  the 
world." 

"Perhaps  not.     But  he  is  young  yet." 
uNo  matter  how  long  he  lives  he  will  never 
have   the   bearing  of — of   Santovano,    for    in 


stance." 


"Very  likely  he  will  not,  mamma,  but  be 
tween  Morris  and  Santovano  there  is  a  still 
greater  difference,  and  in  more  important  par 
ticulars." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Elizabetta?" 
With   the    same   good-humored   smile    Betty 
shrugged  her  shoulders,   almost   imperceptibly. 
"You  have  never  advised  my  strolling  about  the 
streets    with    Santovano.      And    imagine    what 
your  comments  would  have  been  had  I  sat  out 
in  the  garden,  alone,  at  night,  with  Santovano 
72 


Inferno 

or  with  any  other  Italian.  My  reputation  would 
have  gone  forever!" 

"But  you  have  known  Morris  all  your  life." 

"If  I  had  known  Santovano  all  my  life  would 
there  be  less  need  of  a  chaperon?  No;  and 
that  is  just  the  difference.  The  more  you  know 
the  American  the  more  you  trust  him;  and  the 
more  you  know  the  foreigner  the  less  you  trust 
him." 

"That  is  not  true,  Elizabetta." 

"Not  true?"  repeated  Betty.  "Then  why  do 
American  mothers  trust  their  daughters  alone 
with  American  men?  Does  any  mother  over 
here  think  of  trusting  her  daughter  alone  with 
an  Italian — or  a  Frenchman,  or  any  of  the  dis 
gusting  things?" 

At  this,  Madame  Capodilista,  with  an  excla 
mation  of  indignant  protest,  straightened  up  in 
her  chair.  Betty  heard  the  exclamation,  and 
saw  the  gesture,  but  she  hurried  on  as  if  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"And  I  don't  see  how  men  who  are  unfit  for 
a  girl's  friendship  can  be  matrimonial  prizes. 
Why  shouldn't  I  marry  one  of  my  own  country 
men,  and  live  for  a  purpose? — to  strive  with 
him  and  help  him  ?  Why  must  I  marry  one  of 
73 


The  Villa  Claudia 

these  aristocratic  good-for-nothings  and  be  the 
wife  of  a  title,  of  a  man  who  never  means  to  do 
anything  more  important  than  cultivate  his  sur 
face  manners?  Manners!  Yes,  Santovano  has 
good  manners  and  he  ought  to  have,  with  noth 
ing  else  on  his  mind." 

uElizabetta !  Elizabetta !  How  can  you 
speak  in  that  way  of  the  man  you  are  to  marry?" 

"Why  not,  mamma?  You  know  it  is  true. 
What  business  has  he?  None.  Does  he  ever 
pretend  to  a  day's  work?" 

"But  it  is  not  expected  of  him  in  his  position. 
He  is  a  gentleman  of  leisure — by  inheritance. 
Santovano  is  an  aristocrat.  His  family  is  one 
of  the  highest  in  all  Italy." 

"I  don't  blame  Santovano.  He  is  the  natural 
result  of  his  ancestors.  For  generations  they 
have  probably  been  idle,  dissolute  rakes  with 
polished  easy  manners  and  with  no  ambition  be 
yond  the  gratification  of  their  lowest  appetites. 
No,  I  don't  blame  Santovano.  He  comes  by 
himself  honestly.  But  why  should  not  I,  if  I 
prefer  it,  have  a  husband  with  some  purpose 
in  life?  some  ambition  beyond  clothes  and  man 
ners  and  the  care  of  his  own  finger-nails?" 

Betty,  while  speaking,  had  come  nearer;  and 
74 


Inferno 

as  Madame  Capodilista  looked  into  the  girlish 
face  and  saw  the  light  of  battle  there,  she  real 
ized  the  awakening  of  a  force  beyond  her  own 
maternal  control.  For  the  last  words  were  de 
livered  with  an  unwonted  emphasis  and  decision, 
quite  different  from  Betty  Farnham's  usual  man 
ner  when  addressing  her  mother.  Moreover, 
Betty's  eyes  looked  steadily  into  her  mother's, 
and  although  on  the  verge  of  tears,  were  almost 
threatening  in  their  earnestness.  Plainly,  some 
newly  awakened  spirit  was  working  a  transfor 
mation  in  this  usually  obedient  and  self-forgetful 
maiden. 

Madame  Capodilista  sank  back  among  her 
cushions.  "Elizabetta,  what  has  happened  to 
you?  Do  you  realize  what  you  are  saying — 
and  of  the  man  you  have  promised  to  marry?" 

"Yes,  mamma,  I  do  not  forget  him.  And 
I  realize  now — I  suddenly  realize — how  it  has 
all  come  about.  I  have  been  kept  away  from 
Americans.  I  have  seen  only  Italians.  Tell 
me,  why  should  I  not  marry  one  of  my  own 
countrymen  if  I  prefer  it?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Her  mother  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  her  delicate  fingers  picked  nerv 
ously  at  an  arm  of  her  chair. 

75 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Tell  me,"  repeated  Betty,  "why  should  I 
not  marry  one  of  my  own  countrymen?" 

Madame  Capodilista  pressed  a  quivering 
hand  against  her  forehead,  and  had  Betty  been 
in  a  calmer  mood  the  two  warning  spots  of  color 
in  her  mother's  cheeks  would  have  brought  a 
sudden  end  to  all  discussion.  But  the  excitement 
of  this  revolt — the  first  in  many  years — obscured 
her  vision. 

Very  quietly,  but  in  a  weaker  voice,  Madame 
Capodilista  spoke.  "Has  Morris  asked  you  to 
marry  him?" 

There  was  a  rush  of  color  to  Betty's  cheeks. 
"No,  no,  mamma  !  Of  course  he  has  not !" 

"But  he  wishes  to?" 

"Oh!  How  do  I  know?  But  supposing  he 
did!  He  is  ten  times  the  man  that  Santo- 


vano  is." 


"Morris !    Morris  Lane !" 

"Yes,  Morris  Lane." 

Madame  Capodilista  laughed;  not  the  over 
flowing  merriment  of  a  joyful  heart,  but  the 
laugh  of  a  person  of  ordinary  sense  at  an  utter 
ance  of  inconceivable  foolishness. 

"Poor  Santovano!  So  he  is  less  of  a  man 
than  that  fat,  little,  round-faced,  awkward  Mor- 


Inferno 

ris  Lane,  who  hopes  some  day,  perhaps  to  be  a 
superintendent  in  a  New  England  factory! 
Oh !  delightful !  Santovano's  family  —  espe 
cially  the  duke  and  the  two  cardinals — would 
feel  flattered." 

In  Betty's  eyes  the  light  of  battle  shone 
clearer  still;  but  she  tried  to  be  calm.  "Yes, 
Morris  is  young,  and  he  is  fat,  and  he  has  a 
round  face,  and  he  changes  color,  and  his  man 
ners  are  not  easy — and  all  that — I  grant  all 
that.  But  as  to  real  manliness  and  solid  quali 
ties,  as  to  industry  and  perseverance,  and  moral 
sense  and  ambition,  and  all  the  things  a  girl 
wants  in  a  husband — why,  he  is  worth  a  hun 
dred  million  Santovanos!" 

Betty  paused,  merely  to  get  her  breath;  but 
she  was  off  again  before  her  mother  could 
speak. 

"And,  since  you  mention  it,  suppose  I  did 
marry  Morris.  I  should  live  in  America,  for 
one  thing,  among  our  own  people.  And  I 
should  have  an  honest,  high-minded  husband, 
with  a  serious  purpose  in  life.  And  we  should 
struggle  and  work  together.  Whereas  here — 
here — "  For  a  brief  instant  she  hesitated,  then 
hurried  on,  " — here  I  should  be  the  wife  of  a 
77 


The  Villa  Claudia 

dissolute,  arrogant,  lazy,  good-for-nothing  idler 
— and  doomed  forever,  to  a  useless  career — 
empty,  fashionable  and  degrading.  I  hate  it — 
hate  it,  hate  it !  There!" 

In  Madame  Capodilista's  face  the  varying 
expressions  of  amazement,  contempt  and  indig 
nation  had  suddenly  changed  to  one  of  despair. 
In  a  voice  perceptibly  weaker,  she  said, 

"Elizabetta,  you  have  promised  yourself  to 
Santovano.  The  wedding  day  is  fixed,  the 
guests  invited  and  the  gifts  are  coming  in.  If 
you  broke  your  faith  with  him  now,  it  would 
kill  me.  I  should " 

As  she  spoke,  the  two  spots  of  color  vanished 
from  her  cheeks,  and  with  closed  eyes  her  head 
fell  back  against  the  chair. 

In  an  instant  Betty  was  kneeling  upon  the 
floor  at  her  mother's  side.  "Oh,  mamma,  mam 
ma  !  What  have  I  done  ?  Never  mind  what  I 
said.  I  do  not  mean  it — indeed,  I  do  not !" 

But  there  was  no  response.  Betty,  her  own 
face  grown  suddenly  pale,  rang  the  bell  for 
assistance,  then  flew  into  the  adjoining  room, 
snatched  a  bottle  from  a  shelf,  and  at  last  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  a  spoonful  of  its  contents  be 
tween  her  mother's  lips. 

78 


Inferno 

To  the  maid  who  came  hurrying  to  the  cham 
ber,  she  cried,  in  Italian, 

"Run,  Anita,  quick,  for  Dr.  Olibrio!  Tell 
him  mamma  has  another  of  those  attacks.  Get 
him  here  at  once.  Quick!  Quick!" 

Before  the  doctor's  arrival  a  little  color  came 
creeping  back  into  the  ashen  lips.  Then  the 
eyes,  as  they  slowly  opened,  remained  fixed 
upon  Betty's  face  with  a,  look  of  distrust — and 
terror.  This  look,  to  the  watching,  agonized 
daughter,  brought  the  sharpest  remorse. 

Again  dropping  to  her  knees  at  her  mother's 
side,  she  held  one  of  the  slender  hands  in  both 
her  own,  and  tenderly  stroked  it. 

"Oh,  mamma,  dearest  mamma !  forget  what 
I  said.  Please  forget.  I  was  not  myself.  I 
don't  know  what  possessed  me — some  sudden, 
horrid  impulse.  Oh,  do  say  you  forgive 


me" 


Madame  Capodilista's  voice  was  weak,  and 
her  words  came  with  an  effort.  "Yes,  darling. 
Of  course  I  forgive  you.  But,  Elizabetta,  are 
you  telling  me  the  truth?  You, will  not  do  what 
you  threatened?" 

"No!  No!  mamma!  I  promise  you.  Only 
live  and  get  well  again,  and  forget  how  thought- 
79 


Inferno 

less  I  have  been.     I  shall  do  just  as  you  wish. 
Indeed,  I  shall.     I  promise  you." 

When  Dr.  Olibrio  came  he  found  the  invalid 
very  weak,  but  out  of  danger.  To  the  daugh 
ter,  however,  he  repeated  the  familiar  warning 
that  another  of  these  attacks  might  prove  fatal: 
that  they  must  be  avoided  at  whatever  cost. 


80 


81 


quocirca  vivite  fortes 
fortiaque  adversis  opponite  pectora  rebus. 

Horace. 


82 


VI 

FRA    DIAVOLO'S    FACE 

WHEN  he  turned  his  back  upon  the 
girl  at  the  open  door,   Morris  Lane 
walked  blindly  through  the  streets  of 
Tivoli.     His  look  was  vacant.     His  heart  was 
numb.     To  be  lifted  into  Paradise,   to  drink 
from  the  fountain  of  Hope,  and  then,  without 
warning,  to  be  hurled  into  Purgatory — is  bitter. 
Nearly  an  hour  he  walked,  seeing  nothing; 
for  in  spirit  he  was  treading  the  sunless  caverns 
of  despair.     Waterfalls,  Roman  ruins,  the  in 
describable  picturesqueness  of  the  world  about 
him,  all  were  wasted.    He  neither  saw,  nor  knew, 
nor  cared. 

Once  he  halted.  With  his  back  to  a  world- 
renowned  view,  he  gazed  absently  at  a  blank 
wall.  But  he  saw  therein  the  face  of  a  girl. 
And  he  looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  trying  hard, 
but  trying  vainly — and  for  the  twentieth  time — 
to  find  their  meaning.  For,  surely,  it  was  not 

6 


The  Villa  Claudia 

a  look  of  indifference,  nor  of  dislike :  more  of 
trouble,  of  anxiety,  or  of  some  inward  struggle. 
No,  he  did  not  believe  that  she  disliked  him. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  must  not  forget  the 
light-hearted  manner  in  which  she  said,  "He  is 
the  man  I  am  to  marry  in  a  fortnight."  And 
that  man,  Santovano,  was  in  all  human  proba 
bility  one  of  those 

A  voice  at  his  elbow  brought  him  back,  with 
a  shock,  from  the  girl  and  the  garden. 

Had  the  gentleman  seen  the  temple  of  the 
Sybil,  or  La  Madonna  di  Quintiliolo?  And 
did  he  care  to  visit  the  villa  of  Maecenas? 

Morris  gazed  upon  the  man  with  a  look  of 
blank  surprise. 

Maecenas!  A  person  who  lived  hundreds  of 
years  before  Betty  Farnham  was  born — before 
history  began !  He  turned  away. 

Onward  he  marched  through  the  winding 
streets  of  Purgatory. 

At  last,  his  willing  but  unguided  legs  having 
brought  him  to  an  open  square,  where  the  little 
iron  chairs  and  tables  of  a  cafe  stood  along  the 
pavement,  he  dropped  into  a  seat.  With  his 
chin  in  his  hands  he  sat,  and  brooded.  His 
brooding,  however,  was  disturbed  by  the  voice 

84 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

of  a  waiter  at  his  side,  asking  politely  in  the 
language  of  the  country  what  the  signore  would 
be  pleased  to  consume.  Morris  wished  for  noth 
ing,  but  he  ordered  a  glass  of  Marsala.  It  was 
brought.  Then,  for  a  period,  he  sat  with  folded 
arms,  gazing  vacantly  down  upon  the  table. 
This  table  was  painted  white  and  blue  to  rep 
resent  marble;  now,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  a 
dazzling  surface.  His  reflections  upon  the  care 
lessness,  the  cruelty,  and  the  hideous  errors  of 
creation  were  continued. 

Before  him,  across  one  side  of  the  piazza,  ran 
a  balustrade,  and  beyond  the  balustrade,  lay  a 
view  such  as  Tivoli  alone  can  offer — a  wondrous 
blending  of  rocks  and  ruins  and  waterfalls;  of 
mountains  and  of  valleys,  of  foliage,  of  flow 
ers,  and  of  gorgeous  color. 

The  green  steep  whence  Anio  leaps 
In  floods  of  snow-white  foam. 

But  of  this  view  the  young  American  saw 
nothing.  Earth  is  covered  with  views,  but  not 
with  Betty  Farnhams.  As  for  himself,  he  real 
ized,  at  last,  the  futility  of  his  own  existence: 
what  a  failure  he  was — how  grotesquely  unim 
portant. 

85 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Santovano ! 

He  repeated  the  name,  for  it  gave  him  pleas 
ure;  the  pleasure  of  exquisite  self-torture.  Per 
haps  this  Santovano  was  dropping  dead  of  heart 
disease  at  this  very  moment.  Possibly  Italians 
were  given  to  heart  disease.  But,  no,  of  course 
not!  Perhaps  Betty,  since  meeting  him — Mor 
ris — might  change  her  mind  about  Santovano. 
She  might  give  up  the  man  she  had  promised 
to  marry.  This  idea,  even  as  it  entered  his 
head,  was  so  stupendously  absurd  as  to  become 
laughable — for  Vanity  and  Morris  were  not 
companions.  And  then,  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  left  the  Villa  Claudia,  he  smiled.  But 
it  was  the  smile  of  the  stoic — of  the  North 
American  Indian  at  the  stake— all  for  effect — 
and  partly,  perhaps,  to  show  himself  that  he 
could  do  it.  For  what  is  sweeter  than  to  fool 
one's  self? 

And  what  kind  of  looking  man  was  Santo 
vano?  Morris,  being  rather  short  himself,  and 
plump,  blond,  boyish,  and  of  benevolent  aspect 
— evidently  not  the  kind  that  Betty  Farnham 
preferred — conceived  a  Santovano  the  reverse 
of  all  this — a  man  tall,  dark  and  fierce,  and 
of  ravishing  beauty.  Now  that  he  came  to 
86 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

think  of  it,  how  could  a  girl  like  Betty  Farn- 
ham  ever  care  for  him,  Morris  Lane,  even  if 
this  Santovano  had  failed  to  exist?  No.  Why 
should  she?  Fool,  fool,  fool  to  have  hoped! 

These  helpful  thoughts,  which  might  have 
continued  until  nightfall,  were  interrupted  in  a 
manner  that  brought  the  dreamer  sharply  to 
himself.  The  other  half  dozen  patrons  of  the 
cafe  occupied  seats  beneath  an  awning.  But 
Morris  had  not  observed  the  awning.  It  mat 
tered  little,  now,  whether  he  was  hot  or  cold; 
whether  he  languished  in  sunlight  or  in  shadow. 
Down  over  his  eyes  he  had  pulled  the  brim  of 
his  hat,  and  he  was  gazing  in  silent  desolation 
at  the  glass  of  amber  liquid  upon  the  little  table 
before  him.  The  Marsala  caught  the  sunlight 
and  shimmered  like  molten  gold. 

As  he  sat  there,  in  spirit  at  the  Villa  Claudia, 
his  eyes  upon  the  glistening  fluid,  he  became 
dimly  conscious  of  a  figure  standing  by  his  side. 
This  fact,  however,  was  not  of  sufficient  interest 
to  draw  him  from  his  woe.  But  when  the 
shadow  of  a  hand  upon  the  table,  followed  by 
the  hand  itself — a  wrinkled,  bony,  old  man's 
hand — moved  slowly  within  the  radius  of  his 
vision,  he  awoke,  and  straightened  up. 

8? 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Leisurely  this  hand  approached  the  little  glass 
of  sunlit  wine  and,  with  trembling  fingers,  lifted 
it  from  the  table.  Then  Morris  raised  his  head. 
He  did  not  care  for  the  wine,  but  he  resented 
the  impertinence.  The  person  who  was  doing 
the  deed,  an  aged  beggar,  calmly  poured  the  wine 
upon  the  ground,  and  as  calmly  replaced  the 
empty  glass  before  the  astonished  youth.  Then 
Morris,  as  he  looked  up  into  the  eyes  that 
met  his  own,  knew  at  once  who  stood  before 
him. 

Fra  Diavolo  was  in  beggar's  garb,  tall  and 
slight  of  figure.  At  his  chest,  from  a  string 
about  his  neck,  hung  a  flute.  But  it  was  not 
from  the  flute  alone  that  Morris  recognized 
him.  It  was  more  from  the  sudden  recollection 
of  Betty  Farnham's  words:  from  the  giiTs  en 
deavor  to  describe  a  face  whose  character  she 
could  not  divine.  For  he  not  only  recognized 
the  truth  of  her  words,  but  he  was  startled  by 
the  accuracy  of  her  description.  A  debauched 
old  face  without  strength  or  character  it  cer 
tainly  was:  yet,  that  was  not  all.  There  was 
something  more;  something  indefinably  sugges 
tive  of  a  nobler  past;  and,  as  she  had  said,  more 
pathetic  than  repulsive. 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

Calmly  the  old  beggar's  eyes  gazed  down 
into  those  of  the  young  American  when  in  angry 
surprise  they  met  his  own.  But  Morris's  anger 
changed  quickly  to  a  succession  of  quite  different 
emotions,  as  he  realized  the  character — or  rather 
found  himself  trying  to  divine  the  significance — 
of  this  peculiar  countenance.  The  face  was 
clean  shaven,  and  it  appeared,  at  first  glance, 
an  unqualified  record  of  about  seventy  years  of 
intemperance.  As  Morris  looked  more  care 
fully,  however,  he  detected  in  this  visage  the 
existence  of  contradictory  things — something  ab 
normal  that  aroused  his  curiosity:  and  quite  dif 
ferent  from  the  usual  traces  of  debauch.  The 
dark  eyes  had  once  been  handsome.  At  present 
they  were  maudlin;  but  they  were  not  the  eyes 
of  a  common  drunkard.  A  gentle  expression 
— as  of  protest  against  existing  conditions — a 
mingling  of  pride  and  helplessness,  gave  infinite 
melancholy  to  a  face  which  was  both  repellent 
and  engaging.  And  it  seemed  to  Morris  that 
Fra  Diavolo's  eyes,  as  they  gazed  serenely  and 
somewhat  vacantly  into  his  own,  were  asking  for 
aid  or  enlightenment — to  be  rescued  from  him 
self,  perhaps. 

The  face  was  thin,  the   features  good;  the 


The  Villa  Claudia 

hair  and  eyebrows  a  silvery  gray.  The  mouth, 
in  spite  of  its  feeble  corners  and  its  pendant 
lower  lip,  gave  a  distinct  impression  of  having 
been — long  years  ago,  perhaps — something  very 
much  better  than  at  present :  for  it  still  retained 
traces  of  a  character  and  refinement  that  even 
fifty  years  of  self-indulgence  could  not  entirely 
efface. 

While  attempting  no  analysis  of  these  con 
flicting  witnesses  in  Fra  Diavolo's  face,  Morris 
experienced  the  identical  sentiments  that  Betty 
Farnham  had  endeavored  to  define.  He  felt, 
above  all,  an  absorbing  curiosity  to  know  its 
history;  a  desire  to  help  the  man.  He  felt  also 
a  keen  compassion — something  in  the  nature  of 
a  bond  of  sympathy  between  himself  and  this 
personification  of  human  weakness — this  many- 
sided,  amiable,  pathetic,  almost  disgusting  old 
beggar.  As  Betty  Farnham  had  said,  it  was  a 
contemptible  face.  But  as  she  had  also  said, 
it  was  very  much  more  than  that.  Lines  of  old 
age,  as  lines  of  character,  'did  not  exist.  In 
other  faces  those  lines  about  the  brow,  the  eyes 
and  the  mouth,  those  records  of  experience  and 
mental  processes,  of  mirth,  of  sorrow  and  of 
struggle,  such  lines  were  absent  in  Fra  Diavolo's 
90 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

face.  And  their  absence  produced  a  strange 
effect. 

It  seemed  the  face  of  an  infant  who  had 
lived  many  years.  The  only  lines  were  the  ac 
cidental  and  meaningless  wrinkles  formed  by 
receding  tissues.  There  was  no  record  of  work 
or  of  trouble.  And,  as  Morris  studied  Fra 
Diavolo,  he  agreed  heartily  with  Betty — for, 
surely,  a  superabundance  of  pleasure  was  an 
awful  thing  if  the  penalty  were  a  face  like  this. 
"Yes,"  he  thought,  "Betty  is  right:  the  ever 
lasting  struggle  is  a  blessing  in  disguise — no 
man  is  a  man  without  it." 

His  interest  in  this  unaccountable  old  person 
age  was  quickened  by  a  second  look  at  his  flute, 
an  elaborate  instrument,  with  silver  mountings. 
For  he  remembered  that  he  was  also  a  cultivated 
musician. 

To  this  scrutiny  of  his  countenance  Fra  Dia 
volo  gave  little  attention.  It  caused  him  no 
embarrassment.  After  calmly  returning  the 
young  man's  gaze  for  a  moment,  he  pointed  to 
the  now  empty  glass,  and  in  a  thick,  uneven, 
somewhat  timorous  tone — as  of  one  who  spoke 
so  rarely  as  to  become  unfamiliar  with  his  own 
voice — he  uttered  three  or  four  words  in  Italian. 

91 


The  Villa  Claudia 

At  the  same  time  he  slowly  shook  his  head,  as 
if  in  disapproval  or  in  warning. 

Morris,  not  speaking  Italian,  made  no  reply. 
And  none  was  needed.  For  the  waiter,  who  had 
witnessed  the  episode  from  a  distance,  came 
hurrying  forward  with  a  bottle  of  Marsala  in 
his  hand.  He  shook  a  finger  at  Fra  Diavolo 
and  scolded  him,  in  what  seemed  to  Morris,  a 
very  friendly  spirit;  as  an  overindulgent  parent 
might  rebuke  an  infant.  After  which  he  refilled 
the  empty  glass. 

Morris  inquired,  first  in  English,  then  in 
French,  why  the  old  man  had  spilled  the  wine. 
But  neither  of  those  languages  was  understood 
by  the  waiter.  He  amply  expressed  his  feelings, 
however,  by  further  Italian  and  by  emphatic 
gestures  of  regret.  While  these  apologies  were 
under  way  another  person  joined  the  group :  one 
who  as  a  master  of  the  English  tongue,  and  as  a 
friend  of  Morris,  came  forward  to  make  every 
thing  clear,  for  all  concerned.  His  smile  was 
genial  and  his  teeth  were  white  as  he  raised  his 
cap  to  the  American,  then  rested  a  friendly  hand 
upon  Fra  Diavolo's  shoulder. 

"He  not  bad  spirito.  No  !  oh,  no !  Juss  olda 
boy,  ancora — bambino — what."  Then,  tapping 

92 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

his  own  forehead,  uVerra  littla  inside — all  ruina 
— as  lika  Tivoli.  Everatings  forget — dimentico 
—is  it?" 

Morris  nodded.  "Yes,  I  thought  so.  Is  he 
not  Fra  Diavolo?" 

"Yaze,  Fra  Diavolo.  Zat  peoples  spik  him — 
but  he  ees  anonimo — not  name.  His  name  go 
out — dispear — perduto." 

uYes,  too  bad  he  cannot  account  for  himself." 

"He  come  not  from  ze  world  any  ware — no. 
He  nevar  bambino — zat  what  who  in  English  ?" 

"Baby." 

"Gia,  gia !  Baby !  He  nevar  baby.  He  born 
alia  big — all  olda  first." 

"Yes,  so  I  hear.  His  coming  has  never  been 
explained.  But  there  must  be  people  in  Tivoli 
who  know  something  about  it." 

Whether  the  garrulous  guide  misunderstood 
this  speech,  or  whether  he  resented  any  doubts 
of  Fra  Diavolo's  miraculous  advent  was  not  di 
vulged.  But  he  at  once  burst  forth  into  a  vehe 
ment  harangue.  So  vehement  that  Morris  at 
first  thought  the  speaker  was  angry.  He  soon 
discovered,  however,  that  this  rapidity  of  utter 
ance,  the  violent  gestures  and  ferocity  of  glance, 
were  merely  temperamental — his  natural  manner 
93 


The  Villa  Claudia 

of  enforcing  facts.  And  the  impassioned  orator 
soon  showed  his  contempt  for  the  English  lan 
guage  as  a  medium  of  communication.  For  in 
this  discourse  the  Italian  tongue  predominated. 
The  frequent  use  of  English  words — always, 
however,  with  an  Italian  pronunciation — and  of 
Italian  words  which  happened  to  be  the  same  in 
both  languages,  all  clarified  and  enforced  by  a 
running  accompaniment  of  dramatic  gesture  and 
explanatory  pantomime,  enabled  the  American 
to  catch  the  drift  of  the  argument. 

Which  was  this:  Fra  Diavolo's  advent,  here 
in  Tivoli,  was  miraculous — supernatural.  How 
he  came  still  remained  a  mystery.  Not  by 
railway  did  he  come;  neither  did  he  walk,  for 
no  person  had  met  him  on  the  road.  Through 
no  other  town  had  he  passed.  And  in  the  fields 
no  peasant  had  seen  him.  Did  he  come  from 
heaven?  Or  from  down  below?  Some  people 
in  Tivoli  believe  he  is  Orpheus  because  he  plays 
the  flute  so  well — just  come  to  earth  again. 
But,  no:  that  belief  is  childish.  Others  say  he 
is  Bacchus — grown  old.  That  his  love  for  the 
Falernian  wine — unquenchable  even  by  death — 
drags  him  back  to  Tivoli,  and  like  other  drunk 
ards  he  lingers  by  the  vineyard.  But,  then,  you 
94 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

say,  he  never  drinks.  For  answer,  these  be 
lievers  point  at  his  face,  and  say  he  drinks  at 
night  when  the  rest  of  us  are  sleeping.  But 
that  is  a  fairy-tale — not  credible.  These  gods 
are  dead  and  gone  forever. 

Parents,  he  has  none — neither  brother  nor 
sister — not  a  relative  in  the  whole  of  Italy.    No 
body  claims  him,  nor  wants  him — nor  misses 
him;  nor  even  knows  about  him, 
So,  what? 

Morris,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  had  been 
leaning  forward  in  his  effort  to  catch  the  mean 
ing  of  the  discourse.  Now  he  straightened  up 
and  shook  his  head. 

"Most  remarkable.     Very  mysterious." 
"Lasta  night  I  tell  Mister  ze  Villa  Claudia : 
ze  ontaida  Oosa — it.     He  remember? — sovve- 
nire?" 

"Yes,  I  remember.  I  know  the  Villa  Claudia." 
"Bene !    Fra  Diavolo  have  vera  like — yaze." 
"You  say  that  he  owns  a  villa  very  much  like 
it?" 

"Yaze — ze  Villa  Claudia — he  vera  likes — 
mucha." 

"You  mean  he  likes  it  very  much?" 

"Yaze.    He  put  evera  day  night  what — sera. 

95 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Goes  it."  And  the  speaker,  with  lips  and  fingers 
played  an  imaginary  flute. 

"And  he  goes  to  it  every  day  or  night,  and 
plays ?" 

"Yaze,  night  and  also  day — spesse  volte. 
Butta,  butta  esteriore — notta  in." 

"Outside,  yes." 

uYaze,  outsida.    He  hava  fool  tummy." 

"A  fool  tummy." 

"Yaze." 

"You  mean  he  has  a — a  poor  digestion?" 

"For  di  gessan?  Zoze  word  I  not.  Butta 
peoples — soma  peoples,  tell  his  old  spirito — 
what? — molesta  zat  villa — and  drinka  blood. 
Butta  not — vera  stolto — ridicolo." 

"Yes,  that  is  surely  absurd.  But  how,  in  what 
way  in  the  first  place,  did  he  turn  up?" 

"Tanuppa?" 

"Appear — how  did  he  come?  In  what  way? 
Who  found  him?" 

When  this  question  was  once  understood 
copious  information  followed :  Signor  Accoram- 
boni  returning  home  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  passed  the  temple  of  the  Sibyl :  and  he  heard 
from  within  the  sound  of  a  flute.  He  went 
nearer  to  discover  who  played  so  well  and  he 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

saw  a  sight  that  caused  the  roots  of  his  hair  to 
tingle.  For  there,  inside  the  little  temple,  en 
circled  by  the  columns,  sat  a  figure  in  the  moon 
light — radiant — all  in  white,  as  an  angel,  a 
prophet — or  some  holy  spirit.  Many  men — 
many  bold  men — would  have  turned  and  fled — 
or  fallen  to  the  earth.  But  not  the  Signer  Acco- 
ramboni.  Being  fearless,  he  approached  the 
little  temple  and  gazed  upon  the  figure.  And, 
lo !  It  was  this  old  man — clad  in  a  single  gar 
ment. 

"His  night-shirt?" 

"Nighta — shut,  what?" 

"And  that  was  the  first  appearance,  the  very 
beginning  of  Fra  Diavolo?" 

"Yaze — he  not  befora — was.  Zat  hour  be- 
fora — nevar." 

"He  probably  came  from  his  bed — from  a 
house  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood." 

"No !  No !  Giammai !  Not  oosa  in  Tivoli. 
Peoples  know  olla  peoples  in  Tivoli.  Impos- 
sibile!" 

And  it  was  emphatically  explained  that  an 
official  search  throughout  the  town  only  deep 
ened  the  mystery.  No  person  here  had  ever 
seen  him. 

97 


The  Villa  Claudia 

This  conversation  had  been  closely  followed 
by  the  fat  waiter,  and  when  the  tale  was  finished, 
he  hitched  a  shoulder,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and 
opened  his  hands,  as  if  to  say: 

"Yes,  wonderful,  is  it  not? — and  incredible, 
yet  very  true." 

Fra  Diavolo,  in  the  meanwhile,  stood  gazing 
at  nothing.  But  his  eyes,  at  this  point,  in  mov 
ing  vacantly  about,  rested  upon  the  sunlit  wine 
glass,  now  refilled  with  Marsala.  He  stepped 
forward  with  extended  arm,  again  to  take  it.  But 
the  linguacious  guide  interposed  a  hand  and 
gently  pushed  him  back,  away  from  the  table. 

"Does  he  want  the  wine?"  Morris  asked. 
"He  can  have  it  if  he  wishes." 

"Ah,  nevar  zat !  He  wish  again  throw  down. 
He  nevar  eats  ze  wine — drink —  Ah !  nevar,  al 
ways  nevar!" 

"You  say  he  never  drinks  wine — never  wine 
of  any  kind?" 

"No;  it  fright  him — do  him  sick.  Regard." 
And  lifting  the  glass,  with  apologies  to  Morris, 
he  proffered  it  to  Fra  Diavolo.  Whereupon, 
with  a  look  of  fear  in  his  drunken  old  face,  Fra 
Diavolo  held  up  his  hands  as  if  to  avert  a  danger. 

"He  always  lika  zat  from  begin."  Resting  a 
98 


Fra  Diavolo's  Face 

hand  affectionately  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder, 
he  went  on.  "Alia  peoples  in  Tivoli — evera- 
bodee — lova  Fra  Diavolo.  He  for  notzing — 
inutile.  Butta,  he  mak  ze  moozic,  vera  bene. 
Rich  gentlemenz  an'  laddee  givva  money. 
Would  ze  signer  be  please  him  Fra  Diavolo 
maka  ze  flute  go — what?" 

"Yes,  ask  him  to  play." 

The  guide  raised  the  flute  to  its  owner's  lips, 
with  a  request  in  pantomime  that  he  play  upon  it. 
And  Fra  Diavolo,  obediently  and  with  no  change 
of  expression,  in  a  listless,  vacant,  almost  uncon 
scious  manner,  began  to  play.  He  played  the 
same  old  air,  but  he  did  it  extremely  well; 
smoothly,  and  with  the  nicest  feeling.  He 
showed  a  perfect  knowledge  of  his  instrument. 
The  guide  and  the  little  waiter  watched  Morris's 
face  to  see  the  effect.  Morris  had  already  heard 
this  performance — the  night  before,  at  the  Villa 
Claudia — but  he  expressed  his  pleasure.  He 
also  took  a  piece  of  silver  from  his  pocket  and 
held  it  toward  the  musician.  The  musician, 
however,  took  no  notice  of  the  offering  but  kept 
on  with  his  playing  until  the  guide,  very  gently, 
withdrew  the  instrument  from  his  lips.  In  fact, 
the  performer  seemed  almost  unaware  of  the 
7  99 


The  Villa  Claudia 

movement,  and  stood,  with  impassive  features, 
looking  vaguely  at  whatever  person  or  object 
happened  to  attract  his  gaze. 

But  the  piece  of  silver  was  taken  by  the  guide, 
who  dropped  it  into  one  of  Fra  Diavolo's  pock 
ets.  "Him  leetla  bambino — bebe — notta  great 
finanziere — what?  Evera  peoples  can  steal  olda 
Diavolo." 

But  Fra  Diavolo's  flute  had  proclaimed  his 
whereabouts.  Two  children  came  running  into 
the  square,  crying,  uEcco  !  Ecco!" 

Quietly,  and  with  his  usual  indifference,  yet 
always  with  a  certain  dignity,  he  suffered  himself 
to  be  led  away.  And  Morris  saw  him  delivered 
by  the  children  to  a  pleasant-faced  woman  who 
stood  waiting  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 

The  guide  smiled.  "She  promenade  his  din 
ner." 

"She  what?" 

"She  promenade — no?  She  walk  him  his 
dinner." 

"She  takes  him  for  his  dinner?" 

"Yaze.  She  good  as  madre.  Woman  tirty- 
fiva  tak  son  seventee — ha !" 

Then,  lifting  his  cap  and  wishing  Morris  a 
long  life  under  the  protection  of  God,  he  also 
departed. 

100 


MAECENAS 


VII 


101 


Do  you  laugh  at  dreams,  at  magic  terrors,  prodigies,  and  witches, 
at  nightly  ghosts  and  spells  of  Thessaly  ? 

Horace. 


IO2 


VII 

STRANGE    STORIES 

AT  lunch  that  day,  with  Betty  Farnham 
and  her  guest,  sat  grim  Despair.     There 
was  food,  but  its  role  seemed  unimpor 
tant. 

Despite  all  efforts  of  the  hostess  and  the  best 
endeavors  of  her  joyless  visitor,  this  repast,  to 
the  end,  was  notable  for  a  solemnity  and  con 
straint  impervious  to  attack.  The  two  young 
people,  at  intervals,  gazed  in  silence  through  the 
windows  that  opened  to  the  terrace;  and  they 
looked  across  the  sunlit  garden  to  the  Campagna. 
This  Campagna  had  appeared  to  Morris,  in  the 
morning,  a  cheerful  thing.  Now  it  was  a  dreary 
waste.  According  to  Chateaubriand : 

Une  terre  composee  de  la    poussiere    des    morts  et    des 
debris  des  empires. 

And  the  round-faced  guest  observed,  with  the 
keenest  sympathy,   that  since  he  had  left  the 
103 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Villa  Claudia  two  short  hours  ago  a  melancholy 
change  had  come  in  Betty  Farnham's  face.  She 
was  paler.  Her  youthful  spirits  had  departed. 
Even  to  him,  blinded  as  he  was  by  his  own  de 
jection,  it  was  plain  that  she  had  suffered,  and 
that  she  was  making  a  desperate  effort  to  conceal 
it,  and  to  entertain  him.  Against  this  effort  he 
protested. 

"I  know  your  mother's  illness  alarms  you, 
and  that  you  would  rather  be  with  her.  So 
please  do  not  consider  me.  Let  me  meet  Hollo- 
way  at  the  station,  and  take  him  to  the  hotel, 
where  we  both  belong." 

To  this  she  refused  to  listen.  Her  mother 
was  out  of  danger.  She  might  even  be  down  to 
dinner.  No,  they  would  never  forgive  him  if 
he  cheated  them  out  of  his  visit.  He  had  given 
his  word,  and  they  should  hold  him  to  it. 

Once,  during  a  silence,  their  eyes  met,  and 
both  smiled;  and  in  Betty's  smile  there  was  a 
tenderness,  almost  tearful — so  it  seemed  to  Mor 
ris.  And  this  so  affected  him  that  the  color  flew 
to  his  face ;  whereupon  he  was  filled  with  shame. 
But  she,  instead  of  laughing  at  him  as  she  had 
done  in  the  morning,  appeared  embarrassed  her 
self.  Into  her  own  face  came  a  warmer  color. 
104 


Strange  Stories 

This  surprised  the  young  man ;  and  he  wondered 
if  she  had  guessed  his  secret.  At  this  awful  pos 
sibility  he  blushed  again,  and  hotter  than  before. 
But  she  did  not  see  it — at  least,  so  he  thought. 

After  the  repast  Betty  went  upstairs  and  re 
mained  with  her  mother  for  a  time.  And  while 
she  was  away  Morris  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
in  deep — in  very  deep — reflection.  And  inci 
dentally  he  strove  to  regret  that  he  had  entered 
the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Claudia  last  night.  But 
these  efforts  were  futile.  He  was  learning  that 
certain  interesting  forms  of  sorrow  are  more  sat 
isfying  than  ordinary  forms  of  contentment. 
The  silence  of  these  reflections  was  interrupted 
by  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  he  sup 
posed  the  doctor  was  coming  from  Madame 
Capodilista's  chamber.  The  steps  approached 
the  drawing-room  and  a  man  came  in.  He 
was  slight  of  figure,  with  a  thin,  clean-shaven 
face.  His  black  hair  was  brushed  smoothly 
down  across  his  forehead,  and  he  was  dressed 
in  black. 

Morris,  at  first  glance,  thought  he  recognized 
a  New  England  clergyman  he  once  met  in  Bos 
ton,  and  he  arose  to  greet  him.  He  started  to 
express  his  surprise  at  this  coming  together  in  the 
105 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Villa  Claudia.  The  stranger,  however,  seemed 
the  least  bit  startled  as  this  other  man  suddenly 
issued  from  a  corner,  and  when  he  apologized 
in  Italian  for  his  intrusion  Morris  realized  his 
own  mistake.  He  also  muttered  words  of  apol 
ogy,  but  in  English ;  then  the  man  in  black  bowed 
deferentially,  took  a  letter  from  a  desk,  and  de 
parted.  Again  Morris  heard  his  footsteps  on 
the  stairs,  and  he  wondered  who  he  was.  Cer 
tainly  he  was  no  New  England  clergyman — and 
his  general  bearing  was  not  that  of  a  doctor. 

Betty  came  down  at  last,  and  she  and  Morris 
went  out  into  the  garden.  Down  a  side  path, 
by  the  southerly  wall,  she  took  him,  to  the  ruins 
of  an  ancient  structure  where  still  remained  the 
fragments  of  six  Ionic  columns.  The  original 
floor,  in  marbles  of  different  colors,  was  two  or 
three  feet  below  the  level  of  the  garden. 

Morris  studied  this  with  a  lively  interest. 
"What  is  it — the  remains  of  an  ancient  villa?" 

"No,  a  little  temple.  Signer  Capodilista,  my 
stepfather,  unearthed  it.  That  head  of  Bacchus 
with  the  wreath  of  grapes  he  found  just  here,  in 
the  centre  of  this  floor." 

Morris  studied  the  head.  "Was  it  part  of  a 
statue?" 

106 


Strange  Stories 

"Yes,  there  was  a  body  to  fit  it,  originally, 
but  only  a  few  pieces  were  found." 

"What  fun  he  must  have  had,  Mr.  Capodilis- 
ta  !  And  what  a  garden  to  dig  in !" 

"Yes,  he  was  tremendously  interested.  He 
found  lots  of  things." 

"And  that,"  said  Morris,  pointing  to  a  marble 
fragment  against  the  wall,  "is  the  inscription 
you  told  me  about  this  morning.  The  record  of 
the  feast  in  which  Horace  and  Maecenas  figured." 

"Yes,  that  is  it." 

"Too  bad  those  little  drunken  Cupids  are 
broken.  It  must  have  been  a  portion  of  the 
frieze." 

"No,  both  Signor  Capodilista  and  Santovano 
thought  it  was  inside  the  temple — a  fragment 
of  a  slab  that  concealed  a  hiding  place,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort." 

"Then  your  stepfather  took  an  interest  in 
these  things?" 

"Oh,  yes !  He  was  an  enthusiast."  After  a 
pause  she  added,  "He  died  only  a  year  ago. 
And  his  death  was  very  mysterious." 

"Mysterious?" 

Her  head  moved  solemnly  up  and  down. 
"Yes,  very,  very  mysterious.  There  is  some- 
107 


The  Villa  Claudia 

thing  evil  about  this  house — about  one  chamber 
in  it,  at  least,  that  nobody  can  explain." 

"That  must  be  what  the  guide  was  trying  to 
tell  me  last  night." 

"Very  likely." 

"I  am  afraid  I  offended  your  mother  in  allud 
ing  to  it." 

"That  was  no  fault  of  yours.  Mamma  is  ter 
ribly  sensitive  about  such  gossip.  You  see,  she 
is  rather  superstitious,  though  she  hates  to  admit 
it:  and  this  villa  had  begun  to  have  a  peculiar 
reputation  before  we  came  here.  But  nobody 
ever  told  us.  Signer  Capodilista's  unexplain- 
able  death  just  upset  poor  mamma  completely." 

"In  what  way  was  it  unexplainable?" 

They  had  stepped  down  upon  the  floor  of  the 
little  temple,  and  Betty  seated  herself  between 
two  of  the  columns.  Morris  took  a  place  at  her 
side. 

"It  was  unexplainable  in  every  way :  and  worse 
than  unexplainable.  It  was  really  so  sudden  and 
so  extraordinary  as  to  start  afresh  all  the  horrid 
stories  of  the  room  being  haunted." 

"Was  he  murdered?" 

"Oh,  no !    There  were  no  signs  of  violence  of 
any  kind.    Nobody  had  entered  the  room." 
108 


Strange  Stories 

"A  post-mortem  examination  might  have 
solved  the  mystery. " 

"There  was  a  post-mortem  examination,  but 
it  revealed  nothing.  The  doctors  said  they  had 
never  met  with  such  conditions." 

"He  was  found  dead  in  the  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  said  Morris,  inclining  his  head  to  one 
side,  and  raising  his  eyebrows,  "it  is  not  for  me  to 
doubt  those  doctors,  but  for  every  death  there  is 
a  cause.  And  when  the  doctors  fail  to  find  it, 
they  generally  attribute  it  to  heart  failure.  That 
fits  all  cases,  and  is  a  safe  solution." 

"They  said  nothing  about  heart  failure." 

"Was  nothing  whatever  discovered  by  the 
post-mortem — no  apparent  cause  for  his  death?" 

"Oh,  yes — in  a  way.  They  found  a  most  un 
natural  change:  a  sort  of  general  decay,  and  a 
wasting  away  of  all  his  tissues.  They  could  only 
attribute  his  death  to  some  sort  of  exhaustion 
— or  a  sudden  and  unaccountable  extinction 
of  vitality — a  thing  unknown  in  their  expe 


rience." 


"That  did  explain  his  death,  however." 
"But  it  satisfied  nobody,  not  even  the  doctors. 
For  Signer  Capodilista  was  a  man  of  exceptional 
109 


The  Villa  Claudia 

health  and  vigor,  and  was  in  perfect  health  a 
few  hours  before.  It  only  added  to  the  mystery, 
in  fact.  It  merely  made  clear  that  he  had  sud 
denly  died  from  some  shock,  or  other  cause  that 
the  medical  men  could  not  discover." 

Morris  saw  that  the  little  person  beside  him 
was  much  in  earnest,  and  seriously  disturbed. 
Although  convinced,  himself,  that  the  doctors 
were  the  ones  at  fault,  he  meant  to  respect  her 
belief,  whatever  it  might  be. 

uTo  agree  with  the  haunted-house  theory, 
you  should  have  found  a  look  of  terror  in  his 
face,  or  some  indication  of  a  shock." 

"On  the  contrary,  his  expression  was  most 
happy  and  contented.  So  much  so  that  it  startled 
us.  We  could  not  believe  him  dead." 

"Well,  that  is  unusual,"  murmured  the  youth. 
After  a  silence  he  said,  "But  why  do  you  call  it 
'worse  than  unexplainable'  ?  It  seems  to  me  an 
ideal  death." 

"Yes,  one  would  think  so :  but  if  you  had  seen 
his  face  you  would  understand  me  better.  I  can 
not  describe  its  expression.  It  was  quite  a  differ 
ent  face  from  the  one  we  had  known  in  life.  For, 
in  life,  it  was  full  of  strength  and  character, 
while  in  death  it  was  weak  and  almost  foolish." 
no 


Strange  Stories 

"Really?"  and  Morris  turned  toward  her  in 
surprise. 

Betty  inclined  her  head. 

"That  is  most  extraordinary,"  he  said.  "Even 
the  weakest  face  takes  on  a  certain  solemnity  in 
death." 

"Yes,  and  it  was  all  the  more  unnatural  for 
that  reason." 

During  the  silence  that  followed,  Morris's 
eyes  moved  slowly  over  the  ruins  of  the  little 
temple,  then  across  the  radiant  garden,  to 
ward  the  portion  of  the  Villa  Claudia  that  was 
visible  between  the  intervening  masses  of  shrub 
bery.  Its  walls  of  glistening  marble  and  its  de 
lightful  carving  were  now,  in  the  afternoon  sun 
light,  a  delicate  shade  of  pink,  all  in  exquisite 
harmony  with  the  luxuriant  masses  of  crimson, 
white  and  purple  flowers. 

"It  seems  unfair,"  he  said,  "that  such  an  event 
should  injure  the  house  itself.  It  might  occur 
anywhere." 

"But  that  chamber  had  already  a  bad  name — 
as  a  place  to  be  avoided.  According  to  the  na 
tives,  the  room  was  haunted.  They  say  a  curse 


is  on  it." 


"What  started  such  an  idea?" 
in 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Something  horrid  had  happened  there.  No 
body  knows  exactly  how.  But  the  people  of 
Tivoli  tell  tales  of  ghosts  and  evil  spirits."  And 
the  little  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders  contempt 
uously,  as  she  said,  "There  are  people  in  town — 
and  very  intelligent  people,  too — who  insist  upon 
it  that  they  have  seen,  at  midnight,  a  bloody  hand 
at  the  windows  of  that  chamber.  Others  have 
seen  a  flickering  light — always  at  midnight,  of 
course — with  a  white  figure  moving  to  and 
fro." 

"I  suppose  no  tale  is  too  big  for  an  Italian 
peasant,  if  it  is  really  interesting,  and  once  gets 
a  hold  on  him." 

"They  believe  anything.  Why,  one  old  ser 
vant  we  had  here  insisted  on  hanging  a  broom 
at  the  window  to  keep  away  witches.  And  they 
all  believe  in  the  lupo-manaro,  a  sort  of  super 
natural  wolf  that  comes  on  rainy  nights." 

Morris  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "We  are 
unpicturesque  in  America,  and  commonplace,  so 
we  don't  allow  ghosts  to  affect  the  price  of  real 
estate.  But  did  the  villa  have  this  reputation 
before  your  stepfather's  death?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Then  why  did  your  mother  buy  it?" 
112 


Strange  Stories 

"We  never  heard  the  stories  until  we  had 
bought  the  house  and  were  living  in  it." 

"Well,"  said  Morris,  "I  don't  see  why  those 
old  yarns  need  worry  you  much.  There  is  prob 
ably  nothing  behind  them." 

"But  there  is  something  behind  them." 

Morris  looked  incredulous. 

"Indeed,  there  is!"  said  Betty.  "The  death 
of  the  last  owner,  for  instance,  Alessandro  di 
Forli." 

"Did  he  die  in  the  same  room?" 

"He  went  to  bed  in  that  chamber  and  he  was 
never  seen  afterward." 

"Never  seen  at  all,  either  dead  or  alive,  by 
anybody?" 

"Never  seen  at  all,  nor  even  heard  from:  nor 
has  there  been  any  trace  of  him." 

"Well,  that  is  interesting." 

"That  chamber,"  said  Betty,  "had  a  bad  name 
even  then,  and  he  knew  it.  But  the  house  was 
full  of  guests  and  all  the  other  beds  taken,  so 
Signer  di  Forli  went  in  there  to  sleep.  His  ser 
vant  bade  him  good-night  and  left  him  alone. 
Since  that  moment  no  trace  of  him  has  been  dis 
covered." 

The    puzzled   expression   on    Morris's    face 


The  Villa  Claudia 

gradually  faded  into  a  smile.     "Well,"  he  said, 
"that  was  mighty  clever." 

"Clever!" 

"It  was  a  successful  disappearance,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was  certainly  complete." 

"When  those  things  happen  in  America,"  said 
Morris,  "we  look  for  the  woman  in  the  case,  or 
for  a  shortage  in  his  accounts, — or  for  both. 
They  often  come  together." 

But  Betty  shook  her  head.  "Not  in  this  case. 
Signor  di  Forli  was  quite  rich  and  out  of  busi 
ness.  And  he  left  his  affairs  in  excellent  order. 
He  had  everything  to  live  for — health,  wealth, 
a  host  of  friends — everything.  And  he  was  be 
trothed  to  a  charming  girl  with  whom  he  was 
thoroughly  in  love." 

"Then  it  is  a  puzzle.  Did  he  own  the  Villa 
Claudia?" 

"Yes,  we  bought  it  of  his  heirs." 

"Perhaps  he  was  spirited  away  by  brigands." 

"Brigands !    Here  in  Tivoli  ?" 

Morris  smiled.  "I  supposed  you  had  every 
thing  that  was  picturesque  here  in  Tivoli.  But 
was  nothing  missing  in  the  way  of  money  or 
jewels,  or  valuables  of  any  kind?" 

"No,  nothing  went:  not  even  his  clothes." 
114 


Strange  Stories 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Morris,  brightening  up 
with  a  sudden  thought,  uyou  say  he  departed  in 
his  night-clothes?" 

"Well — that  is — all  his  other  clothes  were 
found  in  his  room  the  next  morning." 

And  the  girl  experienced  a  mild  amazement  at 
finding  herself  conversing  with  a  young  man 
about  these  nocturnal  habiliments : — and  without 
a  shock! 

But  Morris  was  absorbed  in  the  excitement  of 
an  important  discovery.  "Did  you  know  this 
man — this  Signer  di  Forli?" 

"Oh,  yes.    He  had  visited  here." 

"Was  he  musical?" 

"Yes,  like  many  other  Italians." 

"Did  he  play  the  flute?" 

"I  think  so,  and  one  or  two  other  instruments. 
And  he  sang." 

"How  long  ago  did  he  disappear?" 

"About  two  years  ago." 

"And  when  did  Fra  Diavolo  appear?" 

"About  the  same  time." 

"Then,"  said  Morris,  straightening  up,  "why 
should  not  your  friend  di  Forli  and  Fra  Diavolo 
be  the  same  person?" 

As  he  asked  this  question  their  eyes  met.  But 
8  115 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Betty  smiled,  and  shook  her  head.  "Because 
Signer  di  Forli  was  a  young  man  of  twenty-six, 
while  Fra  Diavolo  was  over  seventy." 

"Oh,"  said  Morris.  "I  didn't  know  this  other 
man  was  so  young."  And  then,  from  sympathy 
with  his  own  discomfiture,  his  cheeks  grew 
warmer.  But  the  girl  beside  him  was  very  merci 
ful  now,  and  she  looked  off  into  the  garden  as 
if  nobody  in  her  vicinity  was  changing  color. 

A  silence  followed.  Morris,  bending  for 
ward,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  gazed  mournfully 
upon  the  ancient  marbles  at  his  feet.  The  little 
woman  at  his  side,  her  head  against  the  wall, 
was  watching  him  askance,  with  half-closed, 
melancholy  eyes. 

It  was  she,  at  last,  who  broke  the  silence  by  a 
smothered  exclamation.  And  it  seemed  to  her 
companion  that  in  her  tone  there  was  less  of 
pleasure  than  surprise  as  she  murmured: 

"Why,  there  is  Santovano!  He  must  have 
come  by  the  early  train." 


116 


VIII 


117 


Quaff  with  the  gods  immortal  wine. 

Horace. 


118 


VIII 

TWO    LOVERS 

MORRIS  raised  his  eyes. 
Among  the  dazzling  colors  of  the 
garden  moved  a  gentleman  of  patrician 
aspect.    He  was  apparelled  in  the  style  of  Rome, 
not  of  England  or  America :  for  between  English 
and  Italian  standards  of  men's  attire  a  wide  gulf 
exists.    His  high  silk  hat,  of  a  pattern  unfamiliar 
to  Morris,  his  black  coat,  his  pearl-gray  trousers, 
his  collar,  his  cravat,  his  lavender  gloves  and  the 
cut  of  his  hair  were  distinctly  Italian. 

Of  medium  height,  erect  and  of  graceful 
figure,  he  walked  with  easy  confidence — the  sort 
of  confidence  that  showed  an  unaffected  but 
wholesome  gratification  in  being  the  very  person 
that  he  was.  At  Betty's  call  he  turned;  then 
raised  his  hat  and  came  toward  them. 

So  this  was  Santovano !  the  presumptuous,  in 
terloping,  superior,  beloved,   inexpressibly  for- 
119 


The  Villa  Claudia 

tunate  and — by  the  American — thoroughly  de 
tested  and  many  times  accursed  Santovano. 
Morris  studied  the  approaching  figure  with  mel 
ancholy  interest,  as  he  would  have  studied  the 
approach  of  War,  Pestilence  and  Famine. 

The  features  of  the  accepted  lover  were  good; 
his  forehead  wide,  square  and  full,  his  hair  dark. 
With  the  exception  of  a  mustache  that  turned  up 
ward  at  the  ends,  his  face  was  clean-shaven. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  countenance  to  attract 
special  notice,  except,  perhaps,  his  nose,  which 
was  large  for  Northern  climes  but  not  out  of 
scale  in  Italy.  It  was  pleasantly  Roman.  His 
dark  eyes,  his  firm  mouth  and  chin  signified  noth 
ing  unusual.  But  the  whole  ensemble — his  car 
riage,  his  easy  bearing  and  perfect  self-possession 
— proclaimed  him  a  "man  of  the  world."  He 
aslo  gave  the  impression  of  being  a  man  of  lei 
sure.  This  impression  was  correct.  Giulio  di 
Lunigiani  di  Santovano  had  never  been  a  victim 
of  overwork:  nor  was  he  the  victim  of  any  such 
aspirations. 

If  the  presence  of  Morris  Lane — or  the  fact 

of  his  fiancee  being  alone  with  a  man  in  this 

secluded   corner — caused   him   any   surprise,    it 

was  well  concealed.    As  he  stepped  down  upon 

120 


Two  Lovers 

the  ancient  pavement  he  held  his  hat  by  his  side 
and  bowed  with  a  graceful  dignity  to  the  two 
people  before  him.  Then,  taking  the  lady's  ex 
tended  hand,  he  raised  it  toward  his  lips.  But 
the  hand  was  suddenly  withdrawn.  Santovano, 
as  he  straightened  up,  regarded  its  owner  in  a 
mild  amazement.  It  was  of  short  duration, 
however.  Turning  toward  Morris,  he  favored 
that  young  man  with  a  ceremonious  bow.  All  of 
which,  while  simply  done,  reminded  the  Amer 
ican  of  similar  performances  he  had  seen  upon 
the  stage.  Morris  acknowledged  this  bow  with 
one  of  his  own — the  perfunctory  bow  of  New 
England,  seemingly  the  outward  manifestation 
of  inward  hostility;  stiff  and  cold  in  itself,  and 
further  frosted  by  an  hereditary  and  invincible 
self-consciousness — that  cruel  legacy  of  the  Puri 
tan.  It  is  only  fair  to  Morris,  however,  to  state 
that  the  animosity  of  this  ceremonial  was  tem 
pered  by  the  kindliness  and  good-nature  which 
seemed  to  radiate  from  his  boyish  face.  And 
these  Heaven-born  attributes,  even  at  this  trying 
moment,  were  not  wholly  submerged. 

Betty  presented  the  two  gentlemen.     "This  is 
Morris  Lane,  Santovano, — an  old  friend  of  my 
childhood.     He  has  just  come  from  America. 
121 


The  Villa  Claudia 

And  America  produces  the  very  best  of  every 
thing — in  the  way  of  men." 

Santovano  smiled.  And  Morris  noticed  with 
regret  that  the  smile  rendered  his  face  far  more 
attractive  than  in  repose.  It  was  not  only 
friendly  and  sympathetic,  but  it  was  most  becom 
ing  to  the  owner.  It  gave  to  his  countenance  a 
most  unusual  charm  as  he  replied,  in  perfect 
English : 

uTo  be  a  product  of  the  same  country  as  the 
Signorina  Farnham  is  an  enviable  distinction. 
Mr.  Lane  has  my  heartiest  congratulations." 

Whereupon  Morris  discovered — also  with  re 
gret — that  Santovano's  voice  had  a  peculiar  fas 
cination.  It  was  rather  deep  and  of  a  singular 
mellowness  of  tone:  and  so  musical  in  quality, 
so  impressive  in  its  strength  and  calmness,  so 
very  gentle  and  so  melodiously  sympathetic  as 
to  create  a  belief  in  some  hidden  saintliness  of 
character.  Moreover,  Santovano  managed  this 
heavenly  gift  with  exquisite  skill.  Habitually, 
it  was  low  in  tone,  persuasive,  of  a  quality  to 
disarm  all  possible  antagonism  and  to  win  your 
confidence.  There  was  even  a  tear  in  it  when 
necessary.  Or,  if  desired,  it  gained  in  force  and 
commanded  attention;  or  became  thrilling  in  its 
122 


Two  Lovers 

dramatic  intensity.  And  it  was  never  overdone. 
All  his  words  were  pronounced  with  clearness 
and  precision,  and  with  a  seductive  modulation. 

Morris  exclaimed,  impulsively: 

uHow  well  you  speak  English,  sir!" 

Santovano  acknowledged  this  compliment 
with  another  graceful  inclination.  "You  are 
very  kind  to  say  so,  Mr.  Lane." 

"Why  shouldn't  he !"  said  Betty.  "He  had 
an  English  nurse  when  he  was  a  child.  But  that 
makes  no  difference.  He  would  have  learned  it 
anyway.  He  speaks  every  language  in  the 
world." 

"Oh,  Signorina!"  he  protested,  holding  up  a 
hand.  "What  are  you  saying?  Do  not  will 
ingly  deceive  your  friend." 

"Well,  how  many  languages  is  it?" 

"Only  a  few." 

"Only  a  few !"  and  she  turned  toward  Morris. 
"He  calls  a  dozen  a  few." 

"No,  no!"  said  Santovano.    "Not  a  dozen!" 

Whereupon  the  lady  began  counting  upon  her 
fingers.  "You  speak  Latin,  to  begin  with;  and 
Italian,  English,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  Rus 
sian " 

"No,  not  Russian." 

123 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"But  you  read  Russian:  you  know  all  those 
horrid  letters." 

uYes,  but  I  do  not  speak  it." 

"You  speak  French,"  she  went  on,  "and  Ger 
man — three  or  four  kinds  of  German — Turkish, 
Greek " 

"Oh,  I  beg,  I  beg!"  he  interrupted.  "Please 
go  no  further !  Mr.  Lane  will  detest  me  for  a 
prig.  And,  besides,  some  of  those  languages  I 
speak  very  imperfectly." 

"On  the  contrary,  he  speaks  them  all  exceed 
ingly  well,"  she  insisted,  always  addressing  Mor 
ris.  "But  he  deserves  no  credit.  They  came  to 
him  of  their  own  accord.  He  breathes  them  in 
as  you  and  I  breathe  air.  Why,  if  you  should 
whisk  him  through  China  in  a  fast  express,  with 
the  windows  closed,  he  would  catch  the  lan 
guage." 

Santovano's  eyebrows,  and  his  shoulders,  were 
elevated  in  mild  denial.  Betty  leaned  back  and 
frowned.  In  another  instant,  however,  and  to 
Morris's  surprise,  she  went  on  in  a  nervous, 
somewhat  excited  manner,  and  with  a  show  of 
irritation  very  different  from  her  good-natured 
gaiety  of  the  morning: 

"But,  after  all,  why  shouldn't  he  talk  in  every 
124 


Two  Lovers 

language?    He  has  never  had  anything  else  to 
do." 

For  a  short  moment  there  was  an  awkward 
pause,  but  she  hurried  on,  with  a  note  of  scorn 
in  her  voice.  "And  as  for  the  Latin,  why,  he 
inherited  that.  He  is  descended,  you  know, 
from  all  the  Roman  Emperors.  But  they  are 
incidental — merely  blots  on  the  Santovano  es 
cutcheon — the  stain  of  the  parvenus.  The  San- 
tovanos  were  the  leading  family  in  Praeneste. 
And  Praeneste,  you  know,  was  founded  by  a  son 
of  Vulcan,  and  became  a  mighty  city  before 
Romulus  started  on  his  travels." 

Morris  saw  that  the  accepted  lover  was  taken 
aback.  But  he  seemed  more  surprised  than  an 
noyed.  A  perceptible  flush,  however,  came 
slowly  into  his  face.  But  he  was  not  a  man  to 
be  discomfited  by  trifles.  With  a  pleasant  smile, 
he  asked  Morris  how  long  he  had  been  in 
Italy. 

"About  a  month." 

"I  hope  you  find  it  interesting." 

"Indeed,  I  do  I  Even  more  interesting  than  I 
expected — and  I  expected  the  utmost." 

"Have  you  been  to  Horace's  farm?" 

"Not  yet." 

125 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"You  might  find  it  worth  while,  especially  if 
you  happen  to  be  a  reader  of  Horace." 

"Oh,  yes,  a  persistent  reader !  I  know  every 
line  he  wrote  about  that  farm.  He  had  much 
fun  with  it." 

"In  spite  of  the  last  lines  in  the  'Invitation  to 
Maecenas' : 

'  Compulsory  virtue  is  the  charm 
Of  life  upon  the  Sabine  Farm.'  " 

"So  you,  too,  are  an  admirer?" 

"Yes,  indeed."  And  Santovano  took  from  his 
pocket  a  little  volume  of  the  poet.  "I  read  him 
in  the  cars." 

"The  Latin  comes  more  naturally  to  you  Ital 
ians  than  to  us.  We  seldom  master  it  without  a 
painful  effort." 

"The  Latin  itself  may  come  to  us  more  easily, 
but  you  Anglo-Saxons  seem  to  be  his  best  friends. 
In  fact,  the  peasants  hereabouts  think  Horace 
was  an  Englishman — so  many  of  them  worship 
at  his  shrine." 

"We  go  there  to-morrow." 

"You  say  we?"  and  he  looked  inquiringly  at 
Betty.  "Some  friend  goes  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  a  friend  of  mine  who  comes  this  after 
noon."    And  Morris  looked  at  his  watch. 
126 


Two  Lovers 

"Must  you  go  to  the  station  for  Mr.  Hollo- 
well?"  Betty  asked. 

"No;  I  telegraphed  him  how  to  find  the  Villa 
Claudia,  as  he  could  not  say  which  train  he  would 
take." 

"Mr.  Hollowell  is  an  American?"  inquired 
Santovano. 

"No  such  luck  for  him!"  said  Betty.  "He's 
an  Englishman." 

"Hollowell  is  not  a  common  name,"  said  San 
tovano.  "I  knew  a  Mr.  Lydon  Hollowell  once." 

"That  is  my  friend's  name,"  said  Morris. 
"Was  he  rather  stout,  with  a  reddish  face:  very 
jolly  and  full  of  fun?" 

Santovano  with  an  affirmative  nod  acknowl 
edged  the  accuracy  of  this  description  as  applied 
to  his  own  Lydon  Hollowell.  But  Morris  no 
ticed  an  involuntary  but  quickly  suppressed  look 
of  annoyance  on  the  Italian's  face.  And  he  won 
dered,  at  the  moment,  how  anybody  could  pos 
sibly  object  to  Hollowell. 

"This  is  a  very  little  world,"  said  Betty,  "that 
you  and  Santovano  should  have  a  mutual  friend. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Hollowell  is  the  happy  medium 
that  unites  the  two  extremes." 

"Extremes  of  what?"  said  Morris,  with  a 
127 


The  Villa  Claudia 


smile.  "Extremes  of  vice  and  virtue,  or  igno 
rance  and  wisdom?  It  is  bound  to  be  hard  on 
one  of  us." 

"That  question,"  said  Santovano,  "I  pray,  for 
my  own  sake,  she  may  not  answer.  I  am  clearly 
in  disgrace  to-day." 

The  little  lady  frowned,  looked  down  and 
tapped  her  foot  upon  the  ancient  pavement ;  but 
she  made  no  reply. 

"It  is  some  years  since  I  have  seen  Mr.  Hollo- 
well,"  said  Santovano.  "He  may  have  forgotten 
me.  He  studied  architecture,  as  I  remember. 
But  you  will  both  enjoy  Horace's  farm,  although 
there  is  really  not  much  of  the  villa  left." 

"It  is  something  of  a  sentimental  journey. 
We  are  both  lovers  of  the  poet." 

"So  am  I."  Santovano  stepped  toward  the 
drunken  Cupids.  "Did  you  happen  to  notice  this 
tablet?" 

"Now,  Morris,  you  are  in  for  it!"  Betty  ex 
claimed.  "He  will  talk  to  you  by  the  day  or 
week  if  you  once  get  him  on  archaeology — and 
that  slab  in  particular." 

Morris  laughed.    "Well,  I  am  ready  to  listen 
by  the  week  or  by  the  year.    For  I,  also,  am  an 
enthusiast — a  crank,  or  whatever  you  call  us." 
128 


Two  Lovers 

"Well,  you  will  find  all  human  knowledge  in 
Santovano." 

That  gentleman  shook  his  head.  "As  the  Si- 
gnorina  is  pleased  to  be  ironical,  you  can  easily 
divine  my  ignorance." 

"Not  at  all!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am  serious. 
The  extent  of  your  learning  is  almost  offensive." 

Santovano  smiled.  "Now  we  are  nearer  the 
truth,  I  fear — except  as  to  the  learning.  But  one 
of  your  English  poets  says — John  Selden,  I 
think : 

'  No  man  is  the  wiser  for  his  learning  :   wit  and 
wisdom  are  born  with  a  man.' 

Which,  in  my  melancholy  case,  merely  proves 
that  it  requires  neither  wit  nor  wisdom  to  become 
offensive." 

The  Signorina  made  no  reply.  She  merely 
looked  away,  with  cold  indifference.  Morris,  as 
he  turned  with  Santovano  toward  the  ancient  in 
scription,  wondered  at  woman's  ways.  Why  try 
so  hard  to  conceal  all  affection  for  the  man  she 
had  chosen  to  marry  ?  But  he  could  not  help  see 
ing  that  her  words  and  her  contemptuous  manner 
were  clearly  a  surprise  to  Santovano.  However, 
that  gentleman  merely  smiled  politely;  then, 
129 


The  Villa  Claudia 

with  a  slight  movement  of  the  hands  and  eye 
brows  which  seemed  to  say,  "We  must  pardon 
everything,"  he  gave  his  attention  to  the  slab. 

"The  discovery  of  this  marble,  with  its  legend, 
created  a  lively  interest.  Its  meaning  we  cannot 
decipher.  It  hints  at  the  existence  of  something 
hereabouts  that  is  yet  undiscovered." 

"Does  not  the  inscription  say  what  it  is?"  and 
Morris  easily  deciphered  several  of  the  words. 

"It  did  say,  once.  Unfortunately  the  critical 
letters  are  among  the  few  that  are  missing. 
There  was  a  supplementary  slab,  but  the  words 
upon  it  were  obliterated.  The  papyrus  scroll 
was  the  thing  that  would  have " 

"Oh,  begin  at  the  beginning,"  said  Betty, 
"and  lead  up  to  the  scroll.  I  know  Morris  would 
be  interested." 

"Indeed,  I  would !  Unless,  of  course,  it  bores 
you." 

Santovano  smiled.  "It  is  you,  not  I,  who  run 
that  risk.  For  the  Signorina  Betty  tells  the 
simple  truth  when  she  says  that  I  can  talk  of  it 
by  the  day  or  week.  However,  if  you  go  to 
sleep  or  walk  away,  no  offence  will  be  taken." 

"Have  no  fears.  I  am  good  for  a  week,  at 
least."  And  approaching  the  shattered  inscrip- 
130 


Two  Lovers 

tion,  Morris  passed  his  hand  along  the  drunken 
cupids,  as  if  hoping  the  silent  marble  might 
answer  to  his  touch.  For  it  pleased  him  to  imag 
ine  that  between  these  infant  revellers  with  their 
elusive  legend  and  the  fateful  record  of  the  Vil 
la  Claudia  some  bond  existed. 

Centuries  of  oblivion  had  brought  to  these 
marble  children  a  warmth  and  mellowness  of 
tone  that  suggested  living  flesh.  And  now  the 
western  sun  gave  deeper  shadows  and  a  yet  rosier 
glow.  Surely,  had  they  intention  ever  to  divulge 
their  secret  the  time  was  ripe.  During  twenty 
centuries  they  had  kept  it  well. 

Two  thousand  years !  And  these  boys  to-day 
seemed  as  plump  and  young  and  drunk  as  when 
they  started  on  their  long  career. 


—  Which  stored  in  Grecian  jar 
By  my  own  hand  sealed. 

Horace. 


132 


IX 


133 


IX 
A  TALE  OF  DISCOVERY 

IN  his  calm,  well-modulated  voice,  Santovano 
began : 
"Before  Signor  Capodilista  purchased  this 
villa,  it  belonged  to  a  friend  of  mine,  Alessandro 
di  Forli." 

"I  have  told  Morris  all  about  Signor  di  Forli," 
said  Betty,  "also  about  the  haunted  room,  and 
what  has  happened  there.  So  you  can  go  right 


on." 


Santovano  acknowledged  this  information 
with  a  courteous  inclination  of  the  head,  and 
continued:  "I  was  visiting  Signor  di  Forli  about 
two  years  ago.  The  last  morning  of  my  visit, 
as  we  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace,  his  gardener 
told  him  a  suitable  stone  had  been  found  to  re 
place  some  broken  paving  in  the  courtyard.  He 
described  it  as  a  solid  piece  of  marble  but  very 
old  and  discolored.  He  had  just  found  it  in 
digging  a  hole  for  transplanting  a  tree.  So  we 
134 


A  Tale  of  Discovery 

came  down  into  the  garden  to  see  it — here,  on 
this  spot.  But  at  that  time  the  level  of  the  earth 
was  two  or  three  feet  higher  than  the  rest  of 
the  garden. 

"He  showed  us  the  slab  of  marble,  resting 
against  the  wall,  just  below  where  it  is  at  present. 
It  had,  as  he  said,  an  even  surface  and  seemed 
good  enough  for  the  purpose;  that  is,  to  patch 
the  paving  in  the  courtyard.  So  di  Forli  gave 
instructions  to  have  it  set  in  place.  Then,  as  we 
were  turning  away,  the  mason  happened  to  re 
mark  that  the  marble  was  very  much  thicker  in 
some  places  than  in  others,  and  he  must  either 
chisel  it  down  or  dig  out  the  concrete  foundation 
to  set  it  properly.  This  seemed  an  excuse  for 
making  a  longer  job  of  it,  so  di  Forli  took  a  look 
at  the  back  side  of  the  slab.  You  can  imagine 
our  surprise  at  seeing  those  two  children." 

"Indeed,  I  can  I" 

"We  were  both  quite  excited  over  it." 

"I  should  think  so  !"  And  Morris,  his  round 
face  all  aglow  with  the  keenest  interest,  turned 
to  Betty  and  exclaimed,  "We  don't  unearth  such 
things  in  New  England,  do  we?" 

"No.  Those  drunken  Cupids  and  the  Puri 
tans  could  never  have  lived  together." 

135 


The  Villa  Claudia 

The  frown  had  left  her  face  as  Morris  spoke, 
and  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  sad  but  somewhat 
tender  smile.  This  smile  was  so  unlike  her  pre 
vious  severity  as  to  bring  to  her  woeful  com 
patriot  an  added  pang.  For,  if  she  treated  those 
she  loved  as  she  had  just  been  treating  her  fiance, 
and  if  frowns  and  snubs  were  reliable  signs  of 
her  serious  attachment;  and  if,  consequently, 
kindness  meant  indifference,  then  he,  Morris, 
was  indeed  unfortunate !  And  so  the  little  lady's 
tender  look  he  acknowledged  with  a  perfunctory, 
joyless  smile,  which  ended  in  a  frown — and  a 
mortifying  blush.  But  the  blush,  thank  heaven ! 
was  not  seen  by  the  Italian. 

Santovano,  unconscious  of  this  silent  drama, 
went  on  with  his  tale.  uWe  lost  no  time  in  turn 
ing  the  marble  about.  Then  we  washed  it  off. 
We  knew  at  once  it  was  only  a  fragment,  and 
that  the  other  pieces  were  lying,  probably,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  same  hole.  To  the  great  disgust 
of  the  gardener — the  same  old  fellow  that  is  here 
now — we  had  the  newly  planted  tree  uprooted. 
Then  we  began  to  dig." 

"Why  wasn't  I  here?"  exclaimed  Morris. 
"How  I  would  have  dug !" 

"It  is  not  too  late  now,"  said  Betty.  "Come 
136 


A  Tale  of  Discovery 

and  be  our  gardener.  You  shall  have  the  whole 
place  to  dig  in.  There  are  lots  of  good  things 
left." 

"Yes,"  said  Santovano,  ubut  not  of  such  pe 
culiar  interest  as  this,  I  fear.  However,  there  is 
no  telling,  here  in  Tivoli,  what  a  spade  may  di 
vulge.  You  already  know,  perhaps,  that  in  ex 
cavating  ancient  villas  hereabouts  we  dig  down, 
as  a  rule,  through  three  strata.  So  we  first  laid 
aside  the  upper  layer  of  earth,  formed  by  the 
decay,  through  the  ages,  of  the  ruins  themselves; 
of  trees  and  vegetable  matter  generally,  of  soil 
and  dust  deposited  by  wind  and  other  agencies. 
In  this  upper  stratum  we  expected  nothing,  and 
we  found  nothing.  Then  we  came  to  the  middle 
stratum.  This  consisted,  as  usual,  of  bricks  and 
plaster,  of  blocks  of  stone,  cement,  and  frag 
ments  of  marble.  Here  we  found  bits  of  ex 
quisite  carving,  but  nothing  of  special  value.  We 
went  slowly,  however,  and  very  carefully,  for  we 
saw,  from  the  style  of  the  fragments  of  colored 
marbles  and  from  pieces  of  moulding  and  elab 
orately  carved  capitals,  that  we  were  in  the  ruins 
of  a  villa  or  temple  of  exceptional  elegance.  The 
first  obstacle  unearthed  was  a  heavy  fragment 
of  one  of  these  columns,  of  Greek  marble,  lying 
137 


The  Villa  Claudia 

as  it  had  fallen,  centuries  ago.  It  took  us  half  a 
day  to  get  it  out.  We  had  to  have  horses  and 
a  derrick.  It  was  that  one  over  there — the  tall 


one." 


Morris  turned  and  looked,  his  face  aglow  with 
enthusiasm. 

ujust  beneath  the  column,"  Santovano  contin 
ued,  "we  came  to  the  lowest  stratum,  the  one 
lying  directly  upon  this  marble  pavement  we  are 
standing  on.  This  stratum  was,  as  is  usually 
the  case,  made  up  of  tiles  and  roofing  materials; 
for  the  roof,  in  these  ancient  buildings,  was  al 
ways  the  first  thing  to  fall.  But  we  noticed,  with 
some  interest,  that  between  this  lower  stratum 
and  the  one  above  it  lay  a  bed  of  vegetable 
soil,  showing  the  roof  must  have  fallen  a  very 
long  time — centuries  perhaps — before  the  col 
umns  and  the  side  walls  came  down.  And  there, 
just  beneath  the  column,  jammed  down  into  the 
lowest  layer  of  all,  we  found  the  other  fragments 
of  the  tablet." 

"Too  bad !"  And  Morris  looked  sadly  at  the 
shattered  pieces. 

"But  the  real  excitement,"  said  Betty,  "is  yet 
to  come.  Go  on,  Giulio." 

Santovano  obeyed.    "The  tablet  had  been  im- 

138 


A  Tale  of  Discovery 

bedded  in  the  wall,  just  in  front  of  that  recess 
you  see  beneath  it." 

And  Santovano  pointed  to  a  horizontal  cav 
ity  in  the  wall  below  the  tablet.  This  cavity  was 
about  four  feet  long,  two  and  one-half  feet  high, 
and  not  more  than  two  feet  in  depth.  At  present 
it  was  empty. 

"The  marble  slab,"  said  Santovano,  uwas  evi 
dently  placed  there  to  conceal  the  recess,  but  the 
column  in  falling  had  knocked  it  out  of  place  and 
smashed  it.  The  cavity  was  filled  with  the  dirt 
and  dust  that  had  been  drifting  into  it  for  cen 
turies.  But,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  the 
column  happened  to  lie  just  in  front  of  the  open 
ing,  completely  hiding  it.  Otherwise  the  place 
would  have  been  rifled  long  ago.  When  the  col 
umn  was  out  of  the  way,  di  Forli  and  I  got  down 
upon  our  knees.  Then,  with  our  fingers,  we  re 
moved — and  very  carefully — the  dust  and  earth 
that  filled  the  recess.  We  had  hardly  begun, 
however,  when  I  uncovered  the  top  of  an  am 
phora — a  sort  of  vase-like  jug  for  holding  wine. 
You  know  them,  perhaps." 

"Yes,  I  know  them." 

"It  was  covered  with  a  coating  of  pitch,  orig 
inally,  to  keep  the  air  out;  but  now  all  thickly 
139 


The  Villa  Claudia 

encrusted  with  dust  and  dirt.  A  material  that 
looked  like  lime,  or  cement,  had  settled  upon  it. 
We  soon  found  there  were  three  amphorae  orig 
inally,  but  of  the  other  two  only  fragments  were 
left.  Also,  we  picked  up,  among  the  bits  of 
broken  pottery,  three  gold  coins  of  the  time  of 
Augustus." 

"Placed  there  and  forgotten,  perhaps." 

"No.  Di  Forli  and  I — and  others — think 
they  were  put  there  for  luck — one  for  each  am 
phora  :  a  custom  still  observed,  sometimes,  here 
in  Italy." 

"And  in  America,  too,"  said  Morris.  uBut 
what  did  you  find  in  the  unbroken  jar?" 

"It  was  not  opened — that  is,  not  to  my  knowl 
edge.  I  don't  know  what  di  Forli  did  with  it." 

"Gracious!"  exclaimed  the  American.  "I 
should  think  you  would  hunt  it  up !  It  may  con 
tain  some  precious  secret — some  treasure — some 
document  or  bit  of  history;  the  ashes  of  Horace 
himself,  perhaps.  Who  knows  ?" 

"Nothing  of  such  interest,  I  fear.  The  other 
two — the  broken  ones — held  wine  originally. 
You  can  still  see  the  stains  upon  the  stone.  They 
were  filled  as  an  offering  to  the  gods,  probably, 
or  as  part  of  a  ceremony.  The  one  that  was 
140 


A   Tale  of  Discovery 

whole  may  also  have  contained  wine.  But  any 
liquid  would  have  dried  up,  or  evaporated  some 
hundreds  of  years  ago." 

"How  long  had  the  jar  been  there?" 
Santovano  laid  a  finger  on  the  slab.     "There 
is  the  date — 736  A.  U.  C.,  that  was  eighteen 
years  before  Christ.    Just  nineteen  hundred  and 
twenty-one  years  ago." 


141 


Be  wise ;  filter  your  wines,  and  abridge  your  hopes  to 
the  shortness  of  your  life. 

Horace. 


I42 


143 


X 

FORGOTTEN    THINGS. 

DURING  the  silence  that  followed  Mor 
ris  again  stepped  forward  and  examined 
the    tablet.      uSome    interesting   events 
have  taken  place  between  the  hiding  of  that  vase 
and  your  bringing  it  to  light  again." 

uYes.  The  Rome  of  Horace  and  Maecenas 
has  crumbled  and  faded  away.  Even  its  lan 
guage  is  dead.'1 

"And  it's  hard  to  realize,"  said  Morris,  turn 
ing  toward  the  west,  uhow  different  the  Cam- 
pagna  looked  to  Horace  and  Maecenas  as  they 
stood  upon  this  very  spot.  In  those  days,  a  pan 
orama  of  villas  and  fertile  farms." 

uNow,"  said  Betty,  "a  malarial  waste." 
Santovano  heaved  a  sigh.    "Even  the  sites  of 
its  cities  forgotten.     And  this  poor  old  town — 
this  Tibur  that  Horace  loved,  where  the  wealthy 
Roman  came  for  his  summer  pleasure — look  at 
144 


Forgotten  Things 

it  now!  Its  temples  and  splendid  villas  first 
looted  by  the  barbarian,  then  scattered  in  the 
dust — and  at  last  forgotten.  Its  thousands  of 
priceless  statues  burned  by  the  natives  in  medi 
aeval  lime-kilns.  And  for  a  crowning  insolence, 
as  if  to  wipe  even  its  memory  from  the  earth, 
its  very  name  was  changed." 

"When  did  that  occur,  by  the  way,  that  change 
of  name,  from  Tibur  to  Tivoli  ?" 

"In  the  eighth  century." 

"And  seven  hundred  years  after  that,"  said 
Betty,  "came  the  most  important  thing  of  all." 

Both  men  turned  toward  her.  "And  what  was 
that,  Signorina?" 

"The  discovery  of  a  new  continent  in  the 
west." 

"Do  you  mention  that  as  one  more  calamity?" 
Morris  inquired. 

"Indeed,  I  do  not!" 

"Well,  you  know,  Betty,  it  has  been  said  that 
the  mission  of  America  is  to  vulgarize  the 
world." 

"Morris  Lane!  How  can  you  say  such  a 
thing  ?  And  you  an  American !" 

"It's  no  statement  of  mine.  I  only  repeat  the 
scandal." 

145 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"That's  just  as  bad !  I  am  ashamed  of  you, 
Morris!" 

"The  Signorina  forgets,"  said  Santovano, 
with  a  grave  salutation,  "that  America — like  any 
flower  when  deprived  of  the  light  of  the  sun 
for  fourteen  years,  or  more — may  lose  its 
charm." 

"That  is  just  what  has  happened !"  said  Mor 
ris. 

But  the  lady  herself  drew  back  with  a  frown. 
Santovano  did  not  conceal  his  surprise  at  this 
reception  of  his  words.  There  was  an  awkward 
silence,  but  Morris  came  to  the  rescue. 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  jar." 

Santovano  looked  inquiringly  at  Betty.  "Do 
you  know  where  it  is?" 

"No,  I  have  never  seen  it." 

"Well,  really,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  no 
idea  myself  where  it  is.  Somewhere  about  the 
house,  I  suppose.  Poor  di  Forli's  tragic  disap 
pearance  that  very  night  drove  it  out  of  my 
mind." 

"Why  not  hunt  it  up,  just  from  curiosity? 
There  might  be  an  inscription  on  it." 

"I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  it."  Then,  turning 
to  Betty,  "It  may  be  in  the  cellar  or  in  that  store- 
146 


Forgotten  Things 

room    upstairs,    with    all   those    fragments    of 
statues." 

"What  color  was  it?" 

"A  reddish  brown,  with  very  dark  patches — 
a  sort  of  grimy  terra-cotta,  almost  black  in 
places.  We  might  look  for  it  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  let's  do  it,"  said  Morris.  "Even  dregs 
of  wine,  if  put  up  by  Horace,  are  entitled  to 
respect." 

And  then,  as  he  recalled  the  many  mysteries  in 
which  the  place  abounded,  he  added,  "And  who 
knows  but  it  may  contain  the  evil  spirit  that 
haunts  the  Villa  Claudia." 

Santovano  smiled.  "No;  it  is  too  tightly 
corked.  The  spook  could  never  get  out.  Be 
sides,  the  bedevilment  of  the  Villa  Claudia  is  of 
a  different  nature." 

"Of  what  nature?" 

The  Italian  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  with  a 
slight  movement  of  his  hands  and  shoulders 
replied : 

"Ah,  that!  If  we  only  knew,  we  could  find 
the  cure — perhaps." 

"But  you  have  a  suspicion?" 

"Not  the  slightest.    We  only  know  that  it's  a 
wide-awake  and  enterprising  curse." 
10  I47 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"O  Giulio!"  Betty  exclaimed,  "don't  speak 
in  that  way!  It's  too  serious  to  joke  about." 

"I  am  not  joking  about  it,  my  dear.  I  merely 
wished  to  say  that  this  curse,  or  evil  spirit,  or 
combination  of  circumstances — or  whatever  we 
choose  to  call  it — is  too  healthy  and  able-bodied 
to  slumber  peacefully  in  an  empty  wine-jug.  But 
there  is  one  consolation.  Its  baleful  deeds  are 
confined  to  a  single  room." 

"Where  is  that  room — in  what  part  of  the 
house?" 

Santovano  pointed  to  the  drunken  cupids. 
"Just  behind  that  wall." 

But  all  this,  to  Betty,  was  a  disagreeable  sub 
ject: 

"When  you  hear  about  the  scroll,  Morris, 
you  will  be  still  more  eager  to  see  the  jar.  Go 
ahead,  Santovano,  and  tell  him." 

Santovano  went  on.  "Well,  as  we  were  scrap 
ing  away,  with  our  fingers,  the  very  last  of  the 
dust  and  dirt  that  filled  the  niche,  we  found,  be 
side  the  fragments  of  the  broken  jars,  a  papyrus 
scroll." 

"Rolled  up,  or  flat?" 

"Flat — rolled  up,  originally,  but  the  cord  had 
rotted." 

148 


Forgotten  Things 

"Was  it  the  usual  Roman  size — of  an  ordi 
nary  book  with  several  leaves?" 

"Yes,  and  the  usual  stick  at  the  back  to  roll  it 
on.  We  found  it,  as  I  say,  and  picked  it  up; 
and  then  we  stood  out  here  in  the  sunlight  and 
committed  the  stupidest,  most  criminal  act  of  our 
lives — or  of  any  other  lives;  a  thing  to  be 
atoned  in  blood  and  ashes — in  everlasting  purga- 
tory." 

"Did  you  throw  it  away?" 

"Worse  than  that,  for  we  might  have  found  it 
again." 

"Murder  your  companions  in  a  struggle  for 
the  treasure?" 

"Worse  still ;  oh,  infinitely  worse !  We  opened 
the  book,  in  our  excitement,  out  here  in  the  sun 
light,  and  began  to  decipher  it." 

"That  seems  an  intelligent  crime." 

But  Santovano  shook  his  head.  "We  can 
only  guess — and  nobody  can  ever  know — the 
price  of  that  folly.  Di  Forli  believed — and  I 
believe — that  we  held  in  our  hands  an  unpub 
lished  poem  of  Horace,  in  his  own  handwriting." 

"Really!"  And  Morris's  round,  boyish  face 
became  radiant  with  enthusiasm. 

"We  were  sure  of  it.  His  name  was  there, 
149 


The  Villa  Claudia 

on  the  first  page — as  it  is  also  on  the  tablet. 
And  the  one  verse  we  read,  as  we  stood  there 
together,  was  in  exquisite  Latin." 

uBut  what  happened?  Did  you  lose  it — was 
it  stolen  before  you  read  it?" 

"No,  we  read  the  verse.  There  was  but  one. 
The  other  pages,  only  five  or  six  in  all,  seemed 
given  to  some  directions  about  the  preservation 
of  something  or  other.  We  barely  glanced  at 
them.  But  di  Forli  read  the  verse — more  than 
once — and  committed  it  to  memory." 

"But  wherein  was  your  folly?" 

"In  not  taking  the  book  into  the  house  at  once 
and  copying  off  the  text.  When  we  opened  it 
again,  an  hour  later,  the  pages  were  blank. 
Exposure  to  the  air  after  twenty  centuries  of 
darkness  must  have  wrought  some  chemical 
change  in  the  ink.  All  the  letters  had  faded 
away." 

"Oh !     Completely  disappeared  ?" 

"Completely." 

"That's  awful."  And  Morris  closed  his  eyes 
in  sorrow.  He  turned  to  Betty  as  he  opened 
them,  to  see  if  she,  also,  was  horror-stricken  at 
the  realization  of  this  unspeakable  calamity. 
But  that  melancholy  maiden,  who  was  somewhat 
150 


Forgotten  Things 

behind  the  two  men,  and  leaning  forward  with 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  gazing  solemnly  at  Morris, 
seemed  embarrassed  by  this  sudden  attention. 
The  color  came  to  her  cheeks.  For  it  so  hap 
pened  that  she  was  thinking,  at  that  instant,  of 
her  compatriot's  peculiar  little  laugh — the  half- 
suppressed  boyish  chuckle  that  recalled  so  vividly 
her  childhood — and  she  realized  that  this  sound 
had  not  been  heard  since  she  mentioned  Santo- 
vano,  some  hours  ago. 

She  smiled  pleasantly — even  tenderly — and 
straightened  up;  and  she  nodded  in  an  absent 
way,  as  if  a  little  more  or  less  of  Horace  was 
immaterial.  Other  things,  indeed,  came  nearer 
home  just  then!  Absorbed  and  tortured  by  a 
matter  of  terrifying  import,  she  knew  she  had 
reached  a  crisis  in  her  life — and  was  helpless. 

But  she  could  not  discuss  it  with  these  two 
gentlemen. 

Heaven  forbid! 


If,  as  Mimnermus  thinks,  there's  nought  enjoyable  unless   with 
love  and  mirth,  then  spend  your  years  in  love  and  mirth. 

Horace. 


152 


XI 


153 


XI 

MR.   HOLLOWELL 

SANTOVANO,   happily   ignorant   of   his 
fiancee's  reflections,  stood  in  silence  for  a 
moment,    gazing    thoughtfully   upon   the 
bibulous  cupids. 

"But  I  am  very  sure,"  he  said  at  last,  "that 
di  Forli  could  repeat  the  verse.  There  were 
only  six  or  eight  lines." 

"Then  it's  not  lost,  after  all." 

"Alas,  yes!  I  was  called  to  Rome  the  same 
day,  and  that  very  night  poor  di  Forli  disap 
peared." 

"And  Betty  tells  me,"  said  Morris,  "that  no 
body  has  seen  him  since." 

"No,  nor  heard  of  him." 

"Then  it  was  the  very  night  of  your  discovery 
that  he  vanished?" 

"Yes,  that  very  night." 

"Could  there  be  any  connection  between  your 
adventure  and  his  disappearance?" 

"In  what  way?" 

154 


Mr.   Hollowell 

"Oh,  I  have  no  idea  !"  said  Morris.  "I  merely 
suggested  it,  as  both  events  were  so  remarkable 
— and  so  very  close  together." 

"We  have  never  connected  them  in  any  way." 

The  idea,  however,  seemed  lodged  in  Morris's 
mind.  "Perhaps,"  he  added,  udi  Forli  took  the 
jar  with  him." 

The  Italian  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  and 
looked  at  Betty,  who  exclaimed,  "Why,  that 
might  be!" 

Santovano  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  is  pos 
sible,  of  course;  that  is,  if  nothing  is  impossible. 
But  I  cannot  imagine  how  an  empty  jar  could 
accomplish  just  such  a  miracle — the  removal  of 
a  human  being  from  the  face  of  the  earth — 
annihilate  him,  as  it  were,  and  leave  no  trace 
behind.  And  if  the  jar  held  treasure  it  was  his 
already.  He  owned  the  property." 

"Did  the  scroll  go  too?"  Morris  asked. 

"No,  the  scroll  is  in  the  house.  I  will  show 
it  to  you.  But  we  are  not  sure  that  the  jar  is 
gone.  It  was  never  hunted  up,  that's  all." 

"Well,"  said  Morris,  "you  are  terribly  blase 
over  here — to  forget  such  a  find  as  that.  Why, 
it  may  have  been  placed  there  by  Horace  him- 
self." 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"I  think  it  was." 

"And  now  lying  in  some  rubbish-heap  I" 

"No,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that.  It  was  merely 
overlooked  in  the  excitement  and  confusion  of 
di  Forli's  disappearance.  Besides,  you  know, 
those  amphorae  are  not  uncommon." 

The  conversation,  at  this  point,  suffered  an 
interruption.  Anita  brought  a  card  to  Betty, 
and  that  little  lady,  after  glancing  at  it,  said  a 
word  or  two  in  Italian  and  the  servant  departed. 
In  reply  to  an  inquiring  look  from  Morris,  Betty 
smiled  and  nodded. 

"Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Hollowell." 

And  when  Mr.  Hollowell  appeared,  a  few 
moments  later,  he  proved  the  accuracy  of  his 
friend's  brief  description:  "rather  stout,  with  a 
reddish  face;  very  jolly  and  full  of  fun."  Such, 
in  fact,  he  was.  But  that  graphic  summary  failed 
to  do  him  justice.  In  person  he  was  somewhat 
peculiar.  A  mass  of  hair,  not  quite  red  and  al 
most  curly,  covered  a  large  but  well-shaped  head. 
Of  neck  there  was  none  to  speak  of,  as  his  head 
seemed  to  begin  at  his  shoulders.  Yet  he  was 
almost  handsome.  What  gave  his  somewhat 
heavy  face  its  claim  to  beauty  was  an  expression 
of  irresistible  good-humor  and  of  reckless  jollity. 


Mr.   Hollowell 

There  were,  to  be  sure,  certain  indications  of  a 
liberal  indulgence  in  the  good  things  of  life,  but 
they  formed  a  comfortable  harmony  with  his 
cheerful  eyes,  the  pleasant  lines  about  his  mouth, 
and  his  ruddy  complexion.  One  dominating 
feature  in  this  gentleman's  make-up  was  an  ex 
traordinary  capacity — or  genius — for  snatching 
from  all  the  details  of  life,  and  from  each  pass 
ing  moment,  every  particle  of  pleasure  they 
could  possibly  yield.  Moreover,  after  the 
briefest  period  of  his  society,  you  felt  you  had 
known  him  from  childhood — that  is,  if  he  liked 
you. 

And  he  liked  Betty  Farnham. 

While  his  greeting  to  Santovano  was  that  of 
one  old  acquaintance  to  another,  the  formal 
handshake  gave  evidence  of  a  conventional  duty 
rather  than  an  unexpected  pleasure. 

"Show  me  the  door,  Miss  Farnham,  if  I  am 
in  the  way,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  bear  no  resent 
ment.  This  is  all  Morris's  doing,  not  mine,  you 
know.  These  Americans — only  the  men,  of 
course — are  fearful  pushers." 

"You  are  doubly  welcome,"  replied  the  lady, 
"not  only  as  a  friend  of  his,  but  also  from  the 
character  he  gave  you." 

157 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Oh,  then  I  am  undone — if  he  told  the 
truth !" 

"Are  you  so  very  bad?" 

"Unspeakably  bad !  I  am  a  man  of  leisure,  a 
butterfly,  a  philosopher — all  that's  bad." 

"And  a  drone,"  said  Morris. 

"Yes.    I  forgot  that." 

"And  this  lady  despises  drones,"  added  Mor 
ns. 

"Oh!" 

"And  she  has  a  special  contempt  for  all  your 
pet  opinions." 

"Why,  Morris!  What  do  you  mean?"  she 
demanded. 

"I  was  thinking  of  our  conversation  this  morn 
ing.  Hollowell  goes  further  yet  in  preferring  a 
life  that  is  short  and  sweet." 

"Oh,  surely!"  said  Mr.  Hollowell.  '  "Let  it 
be  concise  and  delectable.  I  don't  care  how  short 
you  make  it,  so  long  as  I  get  my  measure  of 
delight.  Better  one  day  of  concentrated  joy  than 
seventy  years  of  dilution." 

"Oh,  no,  no !"  exclaimed  Betty. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  laughed  Mr.  Hollowell. 
"Indeed,  yes!  What  is  lovelier  than  love? 
What  more  uplifting  than  wine  ?  What  is  duller 


Mr.   Hollowell 

than  temperance,  or  more  stupid  than  woe? 
Why,  Miss  Farnham,  this  world  will  never  be  a 
cheerful  place  until  poverty  and  sickness  and 
work  and  worry  are  treated  as  crimes — and 
punished  with  death.  Then — ah,  then! — shall 
we  all  be  happy — and  good!" 

Betty,  with  an  exclamation  of  horror,  threw 
up  her  hands,  and  then  followed  a  conversation 
long  remembered  by  two  of  the  four  persons 
present.  Its  significance  was  prophetic.  The 
finger  of  Fate,  it  seemed,  had  already  marked 
its  victims. 


159 


Pauperis  inmunda  domus  procul  absit. 

Horace. 


I  60 


XII 


t6i 


XII 

PROPHETIC 

SANTOVANO  turned  toward  Morris. 
"Our  visitor,  in  his  scheme  of  life,  recalls 
the  lost  verse  of  Horace." 

"No!"  Betty  exclaimed.  "I  don't  believe 
Horace  ever  uttered  such  a  sentiment !" 

"I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  about  that  verse," 
said  Morris.  "Can't  you  give  us  the  substance  ?" 

"I  think  so.  It  was  about  like  this — but  ex 
pressed,  of  course,  in  perfect  form:  Love  and 
wine  being  the  essence  of  life,  it  behooves  Cupid 
and  Bacchus  to  bestir  themselves  that  the  earth 
may  contain  nothing  but  happy  lovers  and  the 
choicest  grapes." 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  Hollowell.  "My  senti 
ments  exactly.  The  perfect  life  knows  nothing 
but  love  and  wine.  All  else  is  abnormal,  and  a 
waste  of  time.  Moreover,  such  was  clearly  the 
intention  of  the  Almighty,  but  the  scheme  has 
suffered  through  man's  perversity." 

The  lady  shook  her  head  in  solemn  disap 
proval.    "You  have  not  seen  Fra  Diavolo." 
162 


Prophetic 

"WhoisFraDiavolo?" 

UA  living  result  of  that  philosophy,  and,  in 
cidentally,  a  warning  to  drunkards.  But  what 
an  uplifting  career  you  advocate,  Mr.  Hol- 
lowell.  All  ambition  to  be  drowned  in  grape- 
juice." 

HolloweH's  jovial  smile  became  more  jovial 
still  as  he  replied,  with  triumphant  good-humor, 

"But  ambition,  according  to  every  moralist  of 
whatever  school,  is  a  curse.  All  the  wise  men 
are  agreed  on  that.  It  is  merely  a  disease. 

"  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition." 

Love  and  wine,  however,  are  natural  tastes." 

Betty  frowned  and  shook  her  head,  with  lips 
compressed.  But  Santovano,  in  his  richest  voice 
and  in  a  calm,  convincing  tone,  put  in  a  word. 
"Mr.  Hollowell's  argument  is  not  only  borne 
out  by  every  principle  of  logic,  but  by  Nature's 
own  example.  Happiness  is  normal:  misery  a 
disease, — toil  a  degrading  necessity.  The  prom 
ised  reward  and  consolation  of  religion  is  not 
a  hereafter  of  labor  and  sickness.  It  is  a  future 
of  elegant  leisure,  with  music  and  promiscuous 


joy:" 


11 


163 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"And  surely,"  said  Hollowell,  "serenity  is 
more  elevating  for  the  soul  than  worry." 

The  Italian  smiled.  "What  philosopher  ever 
prayed  for  trouble?" 

"Not  one,"  replied  the  smiling  Briton.  "No 
body  seeks  tribulation  as  a  discipline  for  himself 
— nor  do  parents  seek  it  for  their  own  children. 
Oh,  no!  It  is  always  others  who  need  the 
chastening  hand." 

Santovano  gravely  nodded  approval.  "But 
tribulation  is  our  heritage — the  reward  of  folly. 
A  German  statistician  has  discovered  that  the 
amount  of  our  adulterated  happiness — that  is, 
enjoyment  with  a  string  to  it — averages  twelve 
minutes  out  of  every  sixty :  in  other  words,  one- 
fifth  of  our  waking  hours.  And  that  the  average 
person,  during  the  average  year,  attains  an  unal 
loyed  delight  of  seven  hours." 

"Oh,  it  is  more  than  that!"  said  Betty.  "I 
had  one  hour  of  pure  delight  last  evening  at 
meeting  Morris  Lane  again !" 

Hollowell  laughed.  "Oh,  well,  these  figures 
only  apply  to  humans !  Not  to  heavenly  beings 
overladen  with  love  and  friendship."  And  he 
arose  and  bowed.  But  Betty  shook  her  head. 

"The  pure  delight,  however,  never  continues 
164 


Prophetic 

for  a  whole  minute,"  Santovano  added.  "All 
the  rest  of  life  is  toil  and  trouble,  sickness  and 
hope  deferred,  enlivened  by  patches  of  incom 
plete  content  and  defective  pleasure." 

"But  the  agony,"  said  Hollowell,  "is  pure. 
No  adulteration  there !" 

"Moreover,"  continued  Santovano,  "a  third 
of  our  brief  career  is  wasted  in  sleep.  Out  of 
seventy  years,  we  slumber  twenty." 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  Betty.  "Not  so  much  as  that." 

"Yes;  more  than  seven  hours  out  of  every 
twenty- four." 

Hollowell  frowned.  "Inexcusable!  Simply 
inexcusable !  And  to  think  that  out  of  that  piti 
ful  seventy  we  need  twenty  to  get  our  growth — 
and  the  first  glimmerings  of  sense.  And  the  last 
fifteen  are  all  downhill — a  gradual,  physical  de 
cay.  So  you  see,"  he  added,  impressively,  to 
Betty,  "there  only  remain — let  me  see — to  a 
good,  long  human  life,  but  twenty-five  years  to 
be  relied  on — that  are  really  ours." 

"And  only  the  favored  few,"  said  Santovano, 
"get  that." 

Still  Betty  shook  her  head.  "But  those  years 
of  sleep  are  not  unhappy  years." 

Hollowell  opened  his  hands  in  protestation. 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"No,  but  what  a  hideous  waste  of  precious,  irrev 
ocable  hours !  Is  it  an  unreasonable  prayer — 
or  demand — that  our  niggardly  allowance  of 
conscious  hours  should  be  enjoyable  ?n 

"And  the  bad  ones  abbreviated,"  said  Santo- 
vano. 

Again  she  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"The  prayer  of  wisdom/'  continued  Santo- 
vano,  "is  for  a  life  that  is  short,  and  sweet;  not 
dull  and  long  drawn  out  with  agony  and  toil." 

Hollowell  bowed  his  head.    "Amen  to  that." 

Still  Betty  made  no  answer,  but  leaned  back 
with  a  sigh,  and  for  a  moment  closed  her  eyes. 
Her  experiences,  this  day,  had  been  exceptionally' 
trying,  almost  more  than  she  could  bear  with 
outward  composure.  Once,  indeed,  since  she 
had  been  sitting  here  with  Morris  and  Santovano 
tears  of  helpless  misery  had  come  into  her  eyes. 
And  now,  to  be  thus  discomfited  in  an  argument, 
when  she  felt  herself  in  the  right,  seemed,  in  the 
present  condition  of  her  nerves,  the  final  straw. 
Too  weary  to  renew  the  argument,  she  lowered 
her  eyes  to  conceal  tears  of  vexation.  Recalling 
their  talk  of  the  morning,  she  gave  Morris  a 
rapid  but  reproachful  glance.  In  this  glance  he 
read  distinctly, 

1 66 


Prophetic 

"Et  tuy  Brute?" 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  swallowed.  Into 
his  boyish  face  came  a  look  of  decision — as  of 
sudden  resolve.  Then  he  addressed  the  little 
lady. 

"What  a  joke  upon  these  gentlemen  if  they 
should  become  victims  of  their  own  philosophy  1" 

"I  don't  know  why,"  said  Santovano.  "I,  for 
one,  am  ready." 

"The  philosophy  is  sound,"  said  Hollowell. 

"No,"  said  Morris,  in  a  gentle  tone,  and  with 
his  cherubic  smile,  "the  philosophy  is  rotten.  It 
is  merely  an  antidote  for  the  ten  commandments. 
It  is  blear-eyed,  spineless,  and  besotted.  More 
over,  you  two  gentlemen — like  all  other  decent 
persons — would  cut  it  dead  if  you  met  it  in  the 
daytime." 

"Not  I !"  said  Hollowell.  "I  should  fall  upon 
its  neck  and  hug  it." 

Santovano  nodded  his  indorsement. 

"Which  means,"  said  Morris,  "that  to  experi 
ence  during  the  next  few  hours  the  concentrated 
joy  of  several  years,  you  would  consent  to  be 
found  dead  in  your  beds  to-morrow  morning." 

Betty  straightened  up  and  regarded  her  coun 
tryman  with  grateful  interest. 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Dead  in  our  beds  the  next  morning?"  re 
peated  Hollowell.  "Aren't  you  hurrying  us  off 
a  little?" 

"No.  You  both  say  life  cannot  be  too  short 
if  only  it  is  sweet  enough — that  is,  if  you  get 
your  share  of  fun.  And  according  to  the  figures 
of  Mr.  Santovano's  German  you  could  get  all 
that's  due  you  before  to-morrow  morning — and 
still  have  a  comfortable  margin  for  extras." 

Hollowell  frowned  and  stroked  his  chin. 
"There  is  food  for  thought  in  that." 

Betty  laughed,  and  pointed  a  finger  at  him. 
"Ha  !  You  are  backing  down !" 

"Not  at  all!  Not  at  all!  It  would  be  an 
interesting  experience,  and  I  would  gladly  try 
it." 

Again  Santovano  nodded  his  head,  always  a 
little  to  one  side.  "And  I  should  embrace  the 
opportunity  with  a  grateful  heart." 

Morris  turned  to  Betty.  "How  little  we  know 
our  friends !  Here  is  Hollowell,  for  the  pleasure 
of  one  delirious  debauch,  one  gluttonous  satiety 
of  every  appetite  and  passion — in  short,  to  die 
drunk  with  his  front  feet  in  the  trough — is  will 
ing—" 

"Oh,  I  say!" 

168 


Prophetic 

" — To  forget  all  friends  and  friendship, 
his  home,  parents,  country,  all  that  other  men 
love,  and  fight,  and  die  for." 

Hollowell  waved  a  hand.  "Look  here !  that's 
another  matter." 

"And  the  Signor  Santovano,"  Morris  went 
on,  in  the  same  gentle  voice  and  with  the  same 
cherubic  smile,  "to  make  sure  of  his  own  pleas 
ure,  and  for  the  delights  of  a  similar  debauch, — 
which  he  admits  appeal  to  him  more  strongly 
than  any  human  ties, — is  willing  and  eager  to 
forego,  among  other  details,  the  woman  he 
thought  of  marrying." 

Santovano  threw  a  hasty  glance  at  Betty,  and 
she,  rising  to  her  feet,  met  his  look  with  one 
which  he  had  not  seen  in  her  face  before — a 
look  difficult  to  define.  But  it  bore  no  message 
of  love. 

Upon  her  champion,  however,  she  smiled. 
"Thank  you,  Morris.  Now  to  the  house  for 
tea.  These  philosophers  may  need  refresh 
ment." 

As  she  moved  across  the  ancient  pavement 
there  came  drifting  in,  among  the  perfumes  of 
the  garden,  the  melancholy  notes  of  Fra  Dia- 
169 


The  Villa  Claudia 

volo's  flute.  They  seemed  to  hover  in  the  air 
like  the  breath  of  sorrow; — a  plaintive  harmony 
with  the  funereal  cypresses  that  towered  on 
either  side. 

Morris  Lane,  with  half-closed  eyes,  drew  a 
long,  slow  breath.  He  would  fill  his  soul  with 
the  memories  of  this  garden,  with  its  odors  and 
its  music,  and  with  the  voice  and  figure  of 
the  girl  before  him — with  all  this  intoxicating 
bitterness  of  life.  For  now  the  voice  of  the  flute 
stirred  within  him  a  responsive  chord — an  in 
definable  pity  for  its  unworded  sorrow  and  for 
its  melodious,  despairing  message.  He  under 
stood,  of  a  sudden,  the  sympathy  between  Betty 
and  the  pathetic  monotony  of  the  music.  It 
seemed  a  bond,  or  rather  the  mockery  of  a  bond, 
that  brought  him  closer  to  this  girl — of  all 
women  upon  earth  the  only  one  he  desired. 

And  after  to-morrow  they  were  to  meet  no 
more! 

Unconsciously,  he  heaved  a  sigh,  so  emphatic, 
so  laden  with  silent  despair  that  she  turned  in 
voluntarily  and  regarded  him.  Whereupon  he 
tried  to  smile,  and  the  color  flew  to  his  face. 
For  the  look  in  her  eyes,  as  they  met  his  own, 
although  he  was  not  sure  of  its  meaning,  caused 
170 


Prophetic 

him  a  certain  surprise  and  joy.  But  he  thought, 
in  his  blindness,  that  she  had  not  guessed  his 
secret. 

So,  together,  the  blind  fool  and  the  all-seeing 
maiden  moved  slowly  along  among  the  flowers 
and  the  ancient  marbles,  toward  the  Villa 
Claudia. 

Casually,  she  glanced  behind  her  toward  the 
little  temple  of  Bacchus  where  the  groom-elect 
seemed  to  be  conversing  somewhat  earnestly 
with  Mr.  Hollowell.  She  said,  with  a  smile, 
"This  talk  of  ours  recalls  another  occasion  when 
you  came  to  my  rescue ;  but,  oh !  so  long  ago ! 
Away  back  in  a  previous  existence,  many  hun 
dreds  of  years.  There  was  deep  snow,  and  run 
away  horses.  You  must  remember." 

But  Morris  shook  his  head. 

"You  were  pushing  me  on  a  sled,  toward  the 
village,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  around  the  church 
corner  just  in  front  of  us,  came  a  pair  of  run 
away  horses.  Perhaps  you  remember  now." 

"No." 

"Well,  I  screamed.  Then  you  looked  up  and 
saw  them,  and  away  you  scrambled  through  the 
snow  to  the  sidewalk,  and  behind  the  nearest 


tree." 


171 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"And  left  you  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
road?" 

Betty  smiled.  "Yes,  that  is  just  what  you  did. 
And  I  was  fitted  tight  in  a  box  that  was  nailed  to 
the  sled.  I  couldn't  move." 

"Oh!  Awful!  Awful!  Was  I  really  such  a 
boy  as  that?" 

"Who  expects  anything  different  of  a  boy 
eight  years  old?" 

"But  a  boy  only  eight  months  old  ought  to 
stand  by  his  girl." 

Betty  smiled.  "You  evidently  had  the  same 
opinion  then,  for  you  had  hardly  reached  the  tree 
when  back  you  floundered.  You  snatched  the 
empty  basket  I  was  holding  and  stood  between 
me  and  the  coming  horses." 

"Ah,  thank  heaven!"  And  Morris  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

"Perhaps  you  begin  to  remember  now." 

"Yes— dimly." 

"You  swung  the  basket  above  your  head  and 
shouted  your  loudest — to  scare  away  the  danger. 
And  I  can  see  the  horses  now.  They  looked 
frightfully  big  and  wild,  coming  straight  upon 
us.  They  filled  the  whole  landscape." 

"Well?  We  are  not  killed,  for  here  we  are." 
172 


Prophetic 

"No;  because  you  did  scare  them,  small  as  you 
were.  At  least,  they  turned  out  for  us  and  went 
by.  But  gracious !  it  was  awfully  close !" 

"Well,  I  am  glad  I  redeemed  myself,  for  my 
own  sake  as  well  as  yours." 

"Andy  Gibbs  was  going  by — you  remember 
AndyGibbs?" 

"Big,  dark  man  with  a  deep  voice  ?" 

"Yes.  He  came  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
road,  picked  up  your  cap  for  you  and  said, 
'Good  for  you,  Fatty!  You  are  built  of  the 
right  sort  of  stuff !  '  " 

Betty  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  With  a  look 
that  gave  him  another  pleasant  thrill  and  deep 
ened  the  color  in  his  face,  she  said,  "Your 
standard  for  eight-year-old  boys  is  too  high. 
Some  very  good  boys  are  not  heroes.  And  as 
for  what  you  did  that  day — well,  I  know  of 
riper  warriors  with  whom  I  should  not  care  to 
trust  myself." 

And  again  she  cast  a  backward  glance.  Mr. 
Hollowell  and  her  future  husband  seemed  in 
earnest  conversation.  Had  the  lady  overheard 
that  conversation  she  would  have  found  it  of 
surpassing  interest. 


173 


For  I  have  learned  that  gods  enjoy  untroubled  life. 


-Horace. 


I 


174 


XIII 

"YOU!" 

WHEN  Betty,  followed  by  Morris  and 
Mr.    Hollowell,    ascended    the    three 
marble  steps  into  the  garden,  Santo- 
vano  laid  a  hand  upon  the  Englishman's  sleeve. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  may  I  also  ask  a  favor?" 

Hollowell  bowed.  And  after  the  brief  silence 
that  followed,  he  murmured, 

"What  a  charming  girl !     Most  exceptional." 

Santovano  nodded.  "Yes,  I  heartily  agree 
with  you." 

"What  a  jolly  little  couple  they  would  make 
— those  two  Americans!  Gad!  do  you  think 
there's  a  chance  of  it?" 

"I  trust  not." 

"Why?    What's  the  objection?" 

"Well,  I  hope  to  marry  the  lady  myself,  a 
fortnight  from  to-morrow." 
176 


"You!" 

Mr.  Hollowell  raised  his  eyebrows  and  took 
a  backward  step.  He  merely  said, 

"You  I" 

But  the  manner  of  its  utterance  had  many 
meanings;  so  many  and  so  various  that  the  Ital 
ian  could  not  repress  a  gesture  of  annoyance. 
"I  hope  to  make  the  lady  happy." 

Mr.  Hollowell  abstained  from  any  immediate 
reply.  He  drew  in  his  lips  and  looked  away  into 
the  garden,  up  at  the  sky,  down  at  the  pavement, 
and,  finally,  at  his  companion.  "Then  your  wife 
— is  not  living?" 

"She  is  not  living." 

"Does  Miss  Farnham  know  all  about 
her?" 

"Yes." 

"All  the  details?" 

Santovano  hesitated.  "All  the  essential  de 
tails." 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  all  that  you  consider 
essential  for  her  peace  of  mind." 

"I  mean  that  she  knows  all  the  principal 
facts." 

"Does  she  know  that  you  refused  to  marry 
her  and  that  your  decision  was  accelerated  by 
relatives  of  the  lady?" 

177 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Santovano  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yes. 
She  knows  all  that." 

"But  it  makes  no  difference?" 

"No." 

Mr.  Hollowell  whistled.  "Gad!  She  is 
more — more  philosophical — less  fastidious,  than 
I  should  have  supposed.  In  fact,  judging  from 
my  short  acquaintance  with  her  I  should  have 
said  that  she  might  have  taken  some  of  those 
details  rather  seriously.  But  she  has  no  foolish 
sentiments?" 

"So  it  appears." 

"Well,  Santovano,  you  are  lucky  to  have 
found  her.  I  know  lots  of  women  who  would 
give  your  record  the  whole  road  if  they  saw  it 
coming." 

Santovano  nodded  politely. 

"It  is  rather  curious,"  continued  the  English 
man,  "for  Miss  Farnham  strikes  me  as  a  some 
what  particular  little  person  of  devilish  high 
standardSo  Just  the  girl  who  would  scream  and 
run  from  such  a  biography  as  yours,  don't  you 
know?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  smiled  pleasantly.  His 
companion  also  smiled,  as  their  eyes  met,  but 
his  smile  was  limited,  and  perfunctory.  "A 


"You!" 

man  can  reform.  I  was  younger  in  those 
days." 

"Reform !  You !"  and  Mr.  Hollowell  laughed 
aloud,  in  cheerful  ridicule.  "Why,  Santovano, 
you  and  reform  never  entered  the  same  town." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that." 

"Worse  than  that.  Silenus  and  Don  Juan 
were  squeamish  old  virgins  compared  with  you." 

"Thanks." 

"Why,  she's  not  the  person  for  you — an  in 
experienced,  sensitive,  romantic,  high-minded, 
pure  little  thing.  Gad,  no !" 

"And  why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Why,  good  God,  man!  it's  an 
unrighteous  fraud!  You  ought  to  marry  some 
divorcee  with  a  spicy  past;  someone  who  could 
meet  you  on  your  own  ground." 

"Yes?" 

"But  you  spoke  of  asking  a  favor.  What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  say  nothing  to  Mr. 
Lane  of  my  old  reputation,  which  I  know  was 
pretty  bad.  But  all  that  is  changed.  Seriously, 
I  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  In  the  future  I 
shall  lead  a  very  different  life.  Mr.  Lane,  from 
an  honest  sense  of  duty,  might  give  Miss  Farn- 
12  179 


The  Villa  Claudia 

ham  what  he  considered  a  friendly  warning  and 
make  her  very  unhappy.  For  these  American 
women  are  given  to  quixotic  sentiments  in  the 
way  of  matrimony." 

"But  what  harm  could  Mr.  Lane  accomplish 
if  she  already  knows  everything  ?" 

uSo  much  depends  on  how  the  case  is  stated." 

uAnd  you  think  another  person  might  not 
state  the  case  as  honestly  as  yourself?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.  I  have  merely  given  her 
extenuating  facts  of  which  a  stranger  would  be 
ignorant." 

"What  were  the  extenuating  facts  at  Wool 
wich?" 

"At  Woolwich?" 

"Yes,  when  you  were  frozen  out  of  the  regi 
ment  by  your  brother  officers  because  of  that 
affair  with  the  parson's  daughter?" 

"It  is  a  long  story." 

"Did  you  tell  that  story  to  Miss  Farnham?" 

"That  is  not  a  story  for  a  man  to  tell  a  young 
unmarried  lady — as  you  know." 

HollowelPs  smile  became  mirthful.  "I  should 
say  not !  Did  you  tell  her  mother  ?" 

"No." 

"Wiseman!" 

180 


"You!" 

"Well,  why  should  I  deliberately  blast  my 
own  hopes  ?  That  is  all  dead,  buried  and  mostly 
forgotten.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was  then." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are,  unless  honest  men  are 
liars!" 

A  flush  came  over  the  Italian's  face,  as  he 
asked  with  outward  calmness,  "May  I  ask  your 
meaning?" 

"Certainly.  Unless  honest  men  are  liars  your 
recent — very  recent — intimacy  with  a  certain 
lady  in  Florence,  for  instance,  seemed  to  bear 
some  relation  to  her  ruin  and  subsequent  death 
— all  within  this  very  year." 

Santovano's  head  inclined  more  to  one  side 
than  usual.  "I  murdered  her,  perhaps?" 

"No,  for  it  was  apparently  a  case  of  suicide. 
But  the  air  in  Florence  to-day  is  laden  with 
rumors  that  might  startle  your  fiancee." 

"What  rumors,  if  you  please?" 

"Are  you  asking  for  information?" 

"I  am." 

"Rumors  that  you  not  only  ruined  her  in  char 
acter  but  in  purse." 

"That  is  a  lie." 

"Of  course!  A  wicked  lie,  told  by  bold,  bad, 
naughty  men." 

181 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  believe  it?" 

"Are  you  still  asking  for  facts,  or  for  consola 
tion?" 

"For  the  truth." 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  it." 

"That  I  took  her  money?" 

The  smile  on  the  Englishman's  cheerful  coun 
tenance  became  a  degree  less  amiable.  "Don't 
ask  such  awkward  questions,  Santovano." 

"Then  you  believe  that  I  am  a  cad  of  the  low 
est  possible  description — a  thieving  blackguard." 

Hollowell  drew  a  long  breath  and  closed  his 
eyes  for  a  moment.  "Those  are  not  the  epithets 
I  should  take  pleasure  in  applying  to  a  gentle 
man.  But  let  us  return  to  business.  What  you 
ask  is,  that  I  refrain  from  giving  Mr.  Lane  cer 
tain  facts  that,  if  repeated  to  your  fiancee  or  to 
her  mother,  might  break  off  the  marriage?" 

"Precisely." 

"That  is,  that  I  join  the  conspiracy." 

Into  the  Italian's  face  came  a  harder  look. 
"Your  choice  of  words,  my  friend,  is  either 
thoughtless — or  insulting." 

Mr.  Hollowell  took  a  backward  step,  and 
from  his  face  the  smile  departed.  "Look  here, 
Santovano,  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  for 
182 


"You!" 

a  quarrel.  My  words  are  chosen  to  express  my 
thoughts.  You  ask  me  for  truthful  answers, 
and  you  get  them.  If  I  came  home  and  found 
a  sister  of  mine  engaged  to  you — or  to  any  man 
with  your  career — I  would  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  stop  it.  In  this  case  if  the  girl  and  her 
mother  knew  certain  facts  they  also  would  stop 
it.  No  one  knows  that  better  than  yourself. 
Now,  you  ask  me  to  withhold  these  facts.  Is 
that  fair  to  them?" 

"It  is  fair  to  them  because  my  future,  not  my 
past,  is  what  at  present  concerns  us.  I  am  older 
now.  My  future  is  a  different  matter." 

"Your  future  is  speculative.  Let  us  stick  to 
facts.  The  girl  has  no  father  nor  brother. 
She  is  ignorant  of  your  reputation  among  men. 
Consequently  she  is  moving  in  the  dark.  I  say 
give  her  a  chance.  Let  her  know  these  things, 
before  she  is  married,  and  not  learn  them  after 
ward.  But  I  will  do  this:  I  will  give  Morris 
Lane  the  plain,  unvarnished  facts,  with  no  exag 
geration,  and  leave  the  rest  to  him.  He  is  their 
nearest  friend." 

Santovano  smiled.  "That  is  delightful ! 
Nothing,  my  dear  Hollowell,  could  display  a 
finer,  more  exquisite  humor." 

183 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"I  am  not  trying  to  be  humorous." 

uMr.  Lane  would  like  nothing  better  than 
to  marry  the  lady  himself.  His  selection  as 
judge  in  this  matter  would  make  the  angels 
smile." 

"You  are  right.  Then  shall  I,  myself,  inter 
view  the  mother?" 

"If  you  insist.  But  may  I  ask  a  very  great 
favor — that  you  say  nothing  before  to-morrow 
morning?  Madame  Capodilista  is  unwell  to 
night.  She  and  I  are  the  best  of  friends,  and  the 
news  you  bring  might  be  dangerous  to  a  lady  in 
her  present  condition." 

"Certainly.  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"Thank  you." 

Hollowell  turned,  and  the  two  men  walked  in 
silence,  between  the  flowers  and  the  ancient  mar 
bles,  toward  the  Villa  Claudia. 

The  Englishman,  as  they  proceeded,  listened 
with  unwonted  gravity,  and  with  an  interest  he 
could  not  have  explained,  to  the  utterings  of  a 
distant  flute. 

Upon  the  terrace,  before  entering  the  villa, 
Hollowell  stopped  and  faced  his  companion. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  think  me  a 
184 


"You!" 

meddler  in  this  business,  or  that  I  am  doing  it 
from  an  unfriendly  motive." 

Santovano,  whose  eyes  were  on  the  ground, 
looked  up  as  if  startled — with  an  involuntary 
frown.  He  seemed  taken  by  surprise;  for,  in 
fact,  an  absorbing  train  of  thought  of  peculiar 
interest  was  interrupted.  His  face,  to  Hollowell, 
seemed  paler;  but  that  might  be  the  reflection 
from  the  villa's  marble  walls.  With  his  usual 
composure,  however,  he  replied,  "No,  I  don't 
think  that." 

"On  my  honor,  Santovano,  I  am  thinking  only 
of  the  girl.  I  have  no  grudge  against  you.  It 
is  no  more  than  just  that  these  women  should 
know  the  facts." 

Santovano  nodded,  but  made  no  reply. 

"I  give  you  my  word  that  I  will  exaggerate 
nothing,  nor  falsely  represent."  He  smiled  as 
he  added,  "And  I  promise,  moreover,  to  handle 
your  appalling  reputation  as  tenderly  as  if  it  be 
longed  to  my  own  brother." 

The  Italian  looked  into  the  honest,  mirthful 
eyes  of  his  companion,  and  he  also  smiled,  a 
friendly,  frank,  forgiving  smile — the  smile  that 
had  warmed  many  hearts  toward  him,  of  both 
men  and  women.  "That's  all  right,  old  man. 


The  Villa  Claudia 

I  appreciate  and  understand.  That  is  where  our 
reputations  differ.  I  have  known  you  too  long 
and  too  well  to  doubt  either  your  motives  or  your 
word.  But  you  will  do  nothing  before  to-mor 
row  morning?'' 

"Nothing." 

"On  that  also  you  give  me  your  word,  and  I 
may  count  upon  it,  absolutely?" 

"Absolutely.    I  swear  it." 

"Thank  you." 

But  on  Santovano's  face,  as  he  stood  aside  for 
his  friend  to  enter  the  drawing-room,  there  came 
a  change  of  expression.  The  frank  and  friendly 
smile  remained  for  an  instant,  then  faded  into 
something  of  another  nature.  The  lips  came 
firmly  together,  and  the  eyes,  as  they  rested  on 
the  back  of  his  companion's  head,  bore  a  look 
that  could  never  harmonize  with  the  forgiving 
smile.  Its  significance  was  clear.  And  Hollo- 
well,  had  he  seen  it,  might  have  been  less  easy 
in  his  mind. 


186 


Do  not  for  a  year  defer  the  sweets  of  life. 


Horace. 


-        X  ,        A 


187 


i88 


XIV 

FRIENDS    OF    FATE 

IN  the  drawing-room,  near  one  of  the  win 
dows  that  opened  to  the  floor,  sat  the  youth 
ful  hostess,  in  front  of  her  a  little  table  with 
the  tea-things.    Morris  Lane,  sitting  opposite, 
put  a  cup  to  his  lips.     He  detested  tea.    That, 
however,    was    unimportant.      The    important 
thing  was  the  girl  in  front  of  him:  for,  alas! 
the  hours  were  few  indeed  in  which  they  were  to 
be  together. 

When  her  eyes  met  his,  he  was  embarrassed; 
then  his  gaze  for  a  period  sought  something  else. 
Both  he  and  she  were  ill  at  ease.  But  Betty,  as 
hostess,  maintained  a  cheerful  front.  And  when 
Hollowell  and  Santovano  entered  she  looked  up 
with  a  smile  and  did  her  best  to  clarify  an  at 
mosphere  already  overcharged  with  animosity 
and  revolt.  The  only  member  of  the  group  who 
enjoyed  a  tranquil  mind  and  cheerful  spirit  was 
189 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Hollowell.  He  had  no  breaking  heart  to  con 
ceal,  no  fruitless  love  to  smother,  no  all-consum 
ing  hate  to  hide. 

Morris  easily  understood  why  Santovano 
should  be  an  object  of  unusual  interest  to  Betty 
Farnham.  His  clean-cut  features,  his  dark  eyes 
and  melodious  speech,  seemed  to  give  assurance 
of  a  gentle,  yet  forceful  spirit — of  heroism  and 
romantic  things.  And  just  at  present,  as  he 
stood  in  the  golden  glow  from  the  western  sky, 
he  resembled  the  painted  and  sculptured  heroes 
of  his  own  fair  land,  the  land  of  poetry  and 
art  and  brilliant  deeds,  in  which  his  own  pro 
genitors,  from  earliest  ages,  had  held  high  place. 
As  Morris  studied  this  man,  and  envied  his  easy 
bearing,  his  graceful  manners,  his  enchanting 
voice  and  winning  smile,  he  wondered  how  a 
merciful  Providence  could  have  cast  him  in  Betty 
Farnham's  path.  And  it  was  painful  to  believe 
him  in  perfect  health,  with  every  promise  of  a 
long  career.  The  American  derived  a  feeble 
pleasure  from  the  change  of  color  in  Santovano's 
cheeks.  For  he  surely  seemed  paler  now  than 
when  he  stood  in  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of 
Bacchus,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago. 

After  drinking  his  cup  of  tea,  Santovano  ex- 
190 


Friends  of  Fate 

cused  himself,  gracefully  of  course,  and  with 
drew.  But  illness  was  not  the  cause  of  this  de 
parture.  Santovano's  health  was  never  better. 
The  slight  pallor  in  his  cheeks  came  simply  from 
a  mental  condition.  He  had  made,  somewhat 
suddenly,  an  important  resolve. 

Mounting  thoughtfully  the  palatial  staircase 
of  the  Villa  Claudia,  he  entered  his  own  cham 
ber.  This  chamber,  like  all  other  rooms  in  the 
Villa  Claudia,  was  spacious,  with  a  lofty  ceiling. 
The  hangings  of  the  bed  and  windows  were  of 
figured  silk,  now  somewhat  faded.  In  the  cen 
tre  of  each  of  the  six  large  panels  of  the  room 
hung  a  portrait — George  Washington,  Benja 
min  Franklin,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  Henry  W.  Longfellow  and  Abra 
ham  Lincoln.  These  faces  were  placed  in  Santo 
vano's  room  by  the  daughter  of  the  house,  to 
"elevate  his  thoughts  and  to  remind  him  of  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world." 

At  the  present  moment,  however,  the  portraits 
were  inadequate.  To  and  fro  Santovano  walked, 
a  dozen  times,  his  eyes  half  closed,  gently  push 
ing  the  fist  of  his  right  hand  into  the  open  palm 
of  his  left.  Beside  the  mantel,  and  reaching  to 
the  cornice,  hung  an  old-fashioned  bell-cord  with 
191 


The  Villa  Claudia 

a  heavy  tassel.  This  he  pulled,  then  resumed 
his  walk.  A  gentle  knock  at  the  door,  three 
minutes  later,  received  no  answer;  and  none  was 
expected.  The  door  opened  and  a  man  entered 
— the  little  man  that  Morris  Lane  had  taken  for 
a  New  England  clergyman.  His  age  was  any 
where  between  thirty  and  fifty.  A  naturally 
alert  and  sensitive  face  had  become,  by  constant 
schooling,  stolid  and  impassive.  He  closed  the 
door  and  stood  beside  it.  Santovano,  his  head 
to  one  side  and  in  a  tone  of  sorrow,  thus  ad 
dressed  him,  in  the  language  of  the  country: 

"Gasparo,  you  may  have  observed  the  Eng 
lish  gentleman  who  arrived  this  afternoon — the 
Signer  Ollovell." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"His  presence  in  this  house,  Gasparo,  is  re 
grettable,  for  he  is  not  a  good  man." 

"Ah!" 

"He  laughs  much,  to  be  sure,  and  is  always 
merry.  But  what  is  worse  than  a  false  friend?" 

"Nothing." 

"I  have  learned  from  his  o\vn  lips,  within  an 
hour,  that  he  means  to  break  off  my  marriage 
with  the  Signorina  Farnham." 

Into  the  valet's  face  came  a  look  that  might 
192 


Friends  of  Fate 

be  fear,  incredulity  or  horror,  all  imperfectly  sup 
pressed. 

"But  why  should  he  do  this  thing?" 

"Money.  Unless  I  agree  to  pay  him  money, 
an  enormous  sum  of  money,  he  will  poison  her 
mind  against  me — and  the  mind  of  her  mother." 

"But  what  can  he  tell  ?    What  does  he  know  ?" 

"Lies.  Anything.  Perhaps  a  mixture  of 
truth  and  falsehood.  But  he  will  succeed,  Gas- 
paro.  He  has  a  knowledge  of  facts  combined 
with  a  rich  invention.  And  whatever  he  says 
will  be  believed,  for  he  is  the  trusted  friend  of 
the  Signor  Lane.  To-morrow  we  may  leave 
this  house,  you  and  I,  never  to  return." 

The  valet's  face  forgot  its  training  and  dis 
played  a  genuine  alarm.  His  lips  parted,  but  no 
sound  came  forth. 

His  master  continued.  "And  so,  instead  of 
becoming  a  man  of  position  and  the  head  of  a 
house,  as  my  birth  entitles  me,  I  go  back  to  the 
army  and  my  debts, — a  wandering  bachelor." 

Gaspare's  chin  had  sunk  upon  his  breast. 
About  his  eyebrows  and  his  mouth  came  the  lines 
of  despair. 

Santovano  lighted  a  cigarette,  then  dropped 
into  a  chair.  "But  this  Englishman  will  say 
193 


The  Villa  Claudia 

nothing  until  to-morrow.  So,  if  anything  serious 
should  overtake  him  before  the  morning — any 
thing  to  close  his  merry  lips  forever — then  I 
would  marry  the  woman  I  love ;  and  mine  would 
be  a  happier  life.  And  a  comfortable  old  age 
would  fall  to  you,  Gasparo." 

Gasparo,  with  his  lips  apart,  slowly  nodded 
his  head. 

"Is  there  no  justice?  A  man  so  vile  deserves 
the  wrath  of  God." 

"Yes,  you  have  spoken  truly;  the  wrath  of 
God.  Yet  I  wish  him  no  worse  punishment  than 
he  deserves.  But  if  the  good  God,  in  his  wis 
dom,  should  see  fit  to  end  the  Signer  Ollovell's 
sinful  life  before  another  sunrise  it  would  cause 
me  no  anguish." 

"Certainly  not!  All  good  men  should  pray 
for  it." 

"And  if  such  was  God's  purpose,  I  should  not 
oppose  the  divine  will." 

Upon  the  mantel  stood  a  photograph  of  Alles- 
sandro  di  Forli — a  handsome  young  face,  rather 
long  and  narrow,  with  a  scholarly  brow,  and 
calm,  reflective  eyes.  Santovano  regarded  this 
portrait  with  a  thoughtful  air. 

"It  would  be  interesting,  extremely  interest- 
194 


Friends  of  Fate 

ing,  and  in  accord  with  our  ideas  of  heavenly 
justice,  if  this  English  gentleman  were  to  disap 
pear  completely — to  vanish,  as  it  were,  like  my 
poor,  dear  friend.  But  my  poor,  dear  friend 
deserved  a  better  fate." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  the  gentleman 
threw  a  seemingly  careless  glance  toward  the 
valet's  face.  The  face,  however,  remained  un 
disturbed.  Santovano's  smile  grew  more  benev 
olent.  In  a  tone  of  peculiar  softness  he  added, 
"We  can  render  the  good  God  effective  aid  in 
this  affair  by  permitting  the  Signer  Ollovell  to 
slumber  in — in  a  certain  chamber." 

Another  seemingly  careless  glance  toward  his 
companion's  face  discovered  the  anticipated  al 
teration. 

uln  that  chamber!"  gasped  the  valet;  and,  in 
voluntarily,  he  took  a  step  backward,  with  no  at 
tempt  to  hide  his  horror. 

"Why  not  ?  Is  he  so  virtuous  that  Fate  should 
avoid  him?" 

Gasparo  shook  his  head,  with  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  his  master's  face.  "That  would  be  mur 
der!"  he  whispered. 

"Murder?  Why,  my  dear  Gasparo,  would 
you  accuse  your  Heavenly  Father  of  murder? 
13  195 


The  Villa  Claudia 

For  it  is  He,  and  He  alone,  who  performs  the 
miracles  in  that  apartment." 

"Yes,  perhaps — without  doubt; — but " 

"Listen,  Gasparo.  If  you  and  I  were  to  drop 
the  Signor  Ollovell  into  deep  water,  or  over  a 
precipice,  that  would  be  murder.  But  to  lodge 
him  in  a  comfortable  chamber,  in  charge  of  his 
Creator, — that  is  a  different  matter.  What  hap 
pens  to  him  in  that  case  is  no  concern  of  ours. 
We  shall  never  be  held  accountable,  either  upon 
earth  or  in  heaven." 

Gasparo  drew  a  hand  across  his  mouth  and 
mastered  his  countenance.  But  his  lips  were 
dry. 

"That  is  impossible !"  he  murmured. 

"Why  impossible?" 

"Because  no  one  is  permitted  to  sleep  in  that 
room.  The  ladies  would  never  forgive  it." 

"It  will  be  entirely  accidental." 

"Accidental?" 

"Yes.    A  lamentable  mistake." 

The  servant's  eyes  rested  uneasily  upon  his 
master's  face. 

"Listen,  Gasparo.  There  is  a  new  servant 
here,  is  there  not  ?  A  girl  who  came  from  Rome 
this  afternoon?" 

196 


Friends  of  Fate 

"Yes,  sir." 

"She  came  through  your  recommendation — 
you  brought  her?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  she  knows  nothing,  as  yet,  of  that  cham 
ber  and  its — its  interesting  history?" 

"No,  sir;  not  yet." 

"Good!  Our  course — that  is,  the  course  of 
Providence,  is  clear." 

Tossing  the  end  of  his  cigarette  into  the  fire 
place,  he  inquired,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "To  what 
apartment  is  the  Signor  Ollovell  assigned?" 

"The  chamber  with  the  painted  ceiling,  of  the 
four  seasons,  that  looks  upon  the  court — at  the 
end  of  this  corridor." 

"Ah,  yes !  It  has  one  large  window,  opening 
to  the  floor?" 

Gasparo  nodded. 

"Now,  Gasparo,  pay  attention  to  my  words. 
While  we  are  dining  to-night,  you  will  enter  this 
chamber  of  the  Signor  Ollovell  and  carry  with 
you  two  stones,  each  about  the  size  of  your  fist. 
Those  stones  you  will  place  upon  the  floor  as  if 
they  had  been  thrown  through  the  window. 
Then,  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  you  will 
press  in  and  break  two  panes  of  glass.  And 
197 


The  Villa   Claudia 

the  fragments  will  be  left  upon  the  floor.     Do 
you  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  two  stones  were  thrown  from 
the  street." 

"Bene!  By  the  same  bad  boys  who  broke  the 
windows  of  the  Signora  Ruspoli  not  long  ago. 
Then,  I  will  accompany  the  English  gentleman 
as  he  comes  up  to  bed  and  I  will  be  present  when 
the  lamentable  discovery  is  made.  Of  course, 
he  must  realize  that  nobody  breathes  the  air  of 
Tivoli  at  night:  that  a  chamber  with  an  open 
window  is  uninhabitable." 

"Which  is  true." 

"And  which  fact  I  shall  emphasize,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  as  we  dine.  But  in  the 
meantime,  to  avoid  discussion,  his  baggage  will 
already  have  been  taken  to  that  other  apart 
ment.  You  will  attend  to  that." 

Gasparo  seemed  on  the  point  of  making  an 
objection,  but  no  time  was  given  him. 

"The  new  servant,  who  must  not  fail  to  be 
on  hand,  will  then  conduct  him  to  the  more  event 
ful  chamber.  That  of  course  will  be  her  error. 
Not  knowing  the  house  she  will  make  a  mistake 
in  the  room.  It  is  she  who  will  have  transferred 
his  things." 

198 


Friends  of  Fate 

Gasparo  nodded.    "It  can  be  arranged." 

Santovano  took  from  his  pocket  a  gold  piece 
of  twenty  lire.  uAs  she  might  become  talkative 
this  evening  with  the  other  servants,  you  would 
do  well  to  make  sure  of  her  silence.  Give  her 
this,  now,  and  the  promise  of  another  twenty  in 
the  morning." 

Gasparo  smiled.  "I  know  the  girl.  You  may 
count  upon  her." 

"Then  I  leave  the  rest  to  you.  The  plan  is 
simple.  And  to-morrow  morning,  if  the  Signor 
Ollovell,  the  quencher  of  love,  the  wrecker  of 
weddings,  comes  down  to  breakfast  alive  and 
well,  no  harm  is  done.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  watchful  Providence  has  fulfilled  its  obvious 
duty,  why" — here  the  speaker's  face  became 
illumined  by  the  winning  smile — "we  shall 
merely  have  facilitated  the  accomplishment  of  a 
divine  purpose." 

Gasparo  also  smiled.  "The  cause  is  surely 
just." 

Santovano  nodded  and  turned  away. 

The  servant  waited  a  moment. 

"Is  there  anything  more,  sir?" 

"That's  all." 

Gasparo  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  si 
lently,  as  when  he  entered. 
199 


Debemur  morti  nos  nostraque. 

Horace. 


200 


201 


XV 
IN    THE    CHAMBER 

ANOTHER  morning. 
The  voices  of  singing  birds,  outside  his 
chamber  window,  awakened  Morris  Lane. 
As  his  eyes  wandered  slowly  around  the  spacious 
room  in  which  he  lay — upon  a  lofty  bed  with 
crimson    hangings, — he    recalled    his    humbler 
quarters  of  the  day  before,  in  the  Hotel  Sibilla. 
Reviewing  his  varied  emotions  since  the  previous 
morning,  he  seemed  to  have  lived  another  and  a 
longer  life.    And  all  in  twenty- four  hours ! 

While  dressing,  he  remembered,  sadly,  the 
joyful  spirit  in  which  he  attired  himself  the  day 
before.  Now,  withered  hopes  were  his.  This 
morning  there  was  no  murmuring  of  happy 
tunes.  Melodies  of  a  joyous  nature  were  not 
for  him.  He  was  far  happier — in  fact,  quite 
happy  and  contented — before  discovering  this 
Villa  Claudia  and  the  grown-up  Betty  Farnham. 
And  yet,  had  the  choice  been  offered  him,  of  the 
202 


In  the  Chamber 

old  contentment  or  the  present  misery,  he  would 
not  have  hesitated.  "Better  to  have  loved  and 
lost — "  Yes,  a  thousand  times  better!  Her 
memory,  through  the  empty  years  to  come, 
should  be  as  a  ray  of  sunlight  in  a  gloomy  for 
est.  A  strain  of  sad  but  soothing  music,  and  for 
ever  in  his  heart. 

Among  the  many  feminine  efforts  to  mitigate 
the  formality  of  this  palatial  chamber  were  sev 
eral  photographs  scattered,  with  thoughtful  ir 
regularity,  along  the  mantel.  One  of  these,  a 
portrait  of  a  little  girl,  proved  of  interest  to  the 
present  guest.  The  diminutive  person  in  this 
picture  had  eyebrows  high  above  her  eyes,  and 
she  seemed  to  study  the  spectator — or  the  camera 
— in  surprise  and  doubt.  Her  dark  hair  was 
drawn  severely  back,  and  held  by  a  ribbon.  On 
a  pair  of  short,  plump  legs  she  stood,  securely 
planted,  as  if  defying  the  lightning.  This  photo 
graph,  in  a  leather  frame,  Morris  took  from  the 
mantel  for  closer  inspection.  As  he  studied  it, 
certain  tender  memories  of  early  boyhood,  cer 
tain  recollections  of  long  ago — the  tragic,  in 
consolable  grief  of  a  cruel  parting,  she  to  cross 
the  ocean,  he  to  stay  at  home — came  crowding 
over  him.  His  eyes  became  wistful — and  a 
203 


The  Villa  Claudia 

trifle  moist.  Slowly,  reverently,  he  raised  the 
photograph  to  his  lips.  As  he  did  so  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  door.  He  started  like  a  guilty 
thing,  and  replaced  the  picture. 

"Yes?" 

" 'Ac qua  calda,  Signor" 

"All  right.    Thanks." 

So  absent-minded,  so  absorbed  by  his  priceless 
woe  had  he  been  this  morning,  that  on  glancing 
at  his  watch  he  found  himself  an  hour  ahead  of 
time.  They  were  to  breakfast  at  eight.  It  was 
not  yet  seven.  He  would  go  out  into  the  gar 
den. 

In  a  pensive  mood  he  descended  the  stairs. 
In  passing  through  the  drawing-room  to  the 
garden,  he  happened  to  notice,  at  the  end  of  a 
corridor  to  his  left,  an  open  window  with  a  bal 
cony.  Beyond  this  balcony  he  could  see,  through 
the  trees,  the  walls  of  another  villa.  Moved  by 
a  desire  to  take  a  peep  into  this  neighbor's  gar 
den,  he  was  walking  toward  it  when  Betty's 
voice,  from  a  little  room  that  opened  upon  the 
corridor,  gave  his  heart  a  quicker  movement, 
with  added  color  to  his  boyish  cheeks. 

"What  an  early  bird  you  are,  Morris !  I  hope 
you  are  not  down  here  because  you  dislike  that 
204 


In  the   Chamber 

great,  unhomelike  chamber.    But  I  gave  you  the 
best  in  the  house.    Really,  I  did !" 

"Oh,  the  chamber  is  all  right — too  good,  if 
anything!"  he  protested.  "I  happened  to  wake 
up  early,  that's  all." 

"I  hope  you  slept  well." 

"Yes,  very  well,  thank  you." 

But  in  her  smiling  face  there  lingered  traces 
of  a  sleepless  night.  As  their  eyes  met,  her  own 
a  little  tired,  but  with  an  affectionate — and  to 
him,  bewitching  smile,  that  made  him  happy 
and  miserable — he  looked  away,  anywhere,  at 
anything.  And  as  there  happened  to  be  a  door, 
close  beside  him,  with  a  little  crucifix  upon  it, 
he  asked,  merely  to  turn  attention  from  his  own 
face,  if  that  was  the  entrance  to  a  private  chapel 
— or  to  a  hermit's  cell. 

"No,  indeed,"  she  answered.  "I  wish  it 
were!  That  is  the  awful  chamber  I  told  you 
about  yesterday.  The  little  crucifix  was  put 
there  by  some  servant,  I  suppose,  to  drive  away 
evil  spirits." 

"Does  it  work?" 

Betty  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know.  No 
body  has  slept  there  since  my  poor  stepfather 
disappeared." 

205 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Was  there  a  crucifix  on  the  door  at  that 

time?" 

"No.     It  has  been  placed  there  recently." 
"May  I  go  in,"  he  asked,  "and  see  the  room?" 
"Yes,  of  course,  if  you  wish.     But  don't  stay 

too  long." 

He  smiled.     "It  surely  must  be  safe  by  day- 

light." 

"You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  a  very  solemn  joke 
— grewsome  and  tragic.  However,  go  in  if  you 
like.  Only  those  who  spend  the  night  come  to 
grief.  The  door  is  unlocked." 

Morris  turned  the  knob  and  opened  the  door. 
Betty  shrank  away. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  he  asked. 

"No.  I  must  go  back.  I  have  a  horror  of  it. 
But  really,  Morris,  it  is  an  evil  place.  Promise 
you  will  not  stay  there  long." 

"All  right.  I  promise.  But  I  have  a  curiosity 
to  see  it." 

Betty  turned  back;  and  Morris  stepped 
within. 

So  deep  was  the  darkness  of  the  chamber  in 

which  Morris  found  himself  that  he  stood  a 

moment,  his  hand  upon  the  door,  until  his  eyes 

became  accustomed  to  the  gloom.  At  the  farther 

206 


In  the   Chamber 

end  a  narrow  bar  of  light  between  the  close- 
drawn  curtains  of  a  window  merely  illumined  the 
floor  in  that  vicinity.  But,  as  he  looked,  he  be 
gan  to  distinguish  certain  articles  of  furniture; 
a  mantel  with  a  portrait;  and,  in  a  corner,  a 
high-post  bed,  with  heavy  hangings.  When  he 
moved  toward  the  window  to  let  in  more  light 
he  heard  the  door,  which  he  had  purposely  left 
open,  close  gently  behind  him.  He  stopped  and 
turned  about.  While  neither  nervous  nor  really 
startled,  he  could  not  avoid  the  thought — owing, 
probably,  to  the  tales  he  had  heard — that  un 
seen  hands  had  moved  it.  But  of  this  foolish 
thought  he  felt  properly  ashamed.  For  he  knew 
that  many  doors  swung  shut  or  open  of  their 
own  free  will. 

In  drawing  aside  one  of  the  heavy  curtains  by 
the  window,  there  came  a  sense  of  disappoint 
ment  as  the  room  disclosed  itself.  The  further 
corners,  to  be  sure,  remained  dim  and  shadowy, 
but  all  else  was  cheerful  and  unsuspicious.  The 
walls  and  draperies  were  a  pleasant  yellow,  with 
pictures  here  and  there. 

The  whole  room,  in  short,  told  its  own  story, 
and  told  it,  apparently,  in  a  frank  and  friendly 
way.  It  had  been  the  study  and  the  chamber 
207 


The  Villa  Claudia 

of  a  wealthy  gentleman  of  artistic  tastes,  Signor 
di  Forli.  Then,  after  Signor  di  Forli's  unac 
countable  vanishing,  it  became  the  study  of  an 
other  gentleman  of  antiquarian  habits,  Signor 
Capodilista.  An  Empire  bookcase,  a  Louis 
XVI.  dressing-table  and  library  desk,  various 
fragments  of  sculpture,  a  Gothic  cabinet,  and 
sundry  objects  of  different  epochs,  showed  this 
room  to  be  the  refuge  for  articles  no  longer  re 
quired  elsewhere  in  the  villa.  But  the  whole 
effect  was  harmonious,  more  homelike,  in  fact, 
and  more  inviting,  than  the  more  formal  apart 
ments. 

Besides,  it  bore  the  marks  of  having  been 
lived  in  and  enjoyed.  And  as  he  surveyed  the 
room  with  its  cheerful  coloring,  its  inviting 
chairs,  and  felt  its  general  air  of  friendliness  and 
comfort,  he  smiled  in  recalling  the  childish  tales 
concerning  it.  He  was  amused  that  Betty,  an 
American,  should  believe  those  stories  of  ghosts 
and  witches,  of  supernatural  wolves,  of  mys 
terious  deaths  and  vanishings. 

While  he  stood,  in  this  way,  holding  back  one 
of  the  heavy  curtains  of  the  window,  and  wonder 
ing  how  such  a  chamber  should  acquire  its  ill 
repute,  he  became  conscious  of  a  subtle  odor. 
208 


In  the  Chamber 

This  odor,  delicate  and  hardly  perceptible,  and 
somewhat  in  the  nature  of  an  essence  or  a  drug — 
almost  a  perfume — caused  him  to  close  his  eyes 
and  try  to  inhale  it  in  larger  measure.  It  was 
unfamiliar.  Yet,  it  recalled,  or  suggested — he 
could  not  say  what — a  flower,  a  fruit,  or  per 
haps  some  long-forgotten  fragrance,  but  its 
charm  was  insidious.  In  a  mild,  indefinite, 
dreamy  way  it  stirred  his  imagination.  He 
found  it,  however,  too  elusive  and  too  mys 
terious  for  analysis. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes,  now  more  accus 
tomed  to  the  dimness  of  the  room,  certain  ob 
jects,  before  unseen,  arrested  his  attention.  He 
noticed,  with  surprise,  that  the  bed,  a  high,  four- 
posted  affair,  seemed  freshly  made  up,  as  if  an 
occupant  were  expected.  And  he  also  noticed, 
upon  the  coverlid,  a  night-shirt,  carefully  folded. 

Had  this  room  remained  untouched  since 
the  night  of  Signer  Capodilista's  mysterious 
death? 

This  seemed  to  Morris  the  only  explanation 
of  the  bed  with  its  clean,  white  sheets  and  pil 
lows,  and  the  folded  night-shirt. 

Then,  as  he  looked  away  from  the  bed  to  a 
farther  corner  of  the  room,  he  started,  straight- 
209 


The  Villa  Claudia 

ened  up,  and  held  his  breath.  Along  his  spine 
and  upward  through  his  hair,  he  felt  a  thrill. 

In  the  dusky  light,  among  the  deeper  shad 
ows,  two  pale,  blue,  human  eyes  were  watching 
him. 

Morris  clutched  the  curtain  with  a  tighter  grip 
— and  took  a  backward  step.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  without  moving.  The  eyes  that  seemed 
fixed  upon  his  own  were  also  motionless.  Other 
faces  were  near  it,  two  painted  portraits  and  a 
bust;  but  there  was  no  deception.  This  face  was 
human  flesh.  It  stood  out  from  the  background, 
clear  and  real. 

With  a  swift  movement  Morris  drew  the  cur 
tain  wide  open,  and  fastened  it.  Then,  always 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  the  face  that  continued  to 
gaze  impassively  in  his  direction,  he  crossed  the 
window  and  drew  back  the  other  curtain.  In 
this  stronger  light  the  form  of  the  other  occu 
pant  of  the  chamber  took  clearer  shape.  It  was 
the  half-reclining  figure  of  a  man  seated  upon  a 
lounge,  one  foot  upon  the  floor,  the  other 
stretched  out  upon  the  seat  beside  him,  the  head 
against  the  back  of  the  sofa.  The  light-blue 
eyes,  while  partly  closed,  were  fixed  upon  Mor 
ris.  But  as  the  head  and  features,  in  this  stronger 
210 


In  the  Chamber 

light,  became  more  distinct,  Morris,  in  astonish 
ment,  started  forward  with  an  involuntary  ex 
clamation. 

"Hollowell!    You  here!" 

But  as  he  approached  the  irresponsive  figure, 
he  stopped  again:  for,  after  all,  the  face  was 
not  the  face  of  Hollowell.  Instead  of  Hollo- 
well's  chestnut  hair,  this  head  was  covered  with 
a  colorless  growth;  a  dull,  dead  brown,  and 
sprinkled  with  gray.  And  Morris,  now  that  he 
was  nearer,  saw  the  face  was  older  by  many 
years.  This  man  had  a  dissolute,  weaker  face, 
baggy  beneath  the  eyes,  with  a  pendent  lower  lip. 
In  fact,  Morris  was  surprised  that  he  should 
have  taken  such  a  man  for  Lydon  Hollowell. 
Mingling  with  his  other  emotions  as  he  stood 
gazing  into  the  lustreless  eyes,  came  a  morbid 
fascination,  as  he  realized  that  the  man  was 
dead.  To  make  sure,  however,  he  stepped 
nearer,  and  was  about  to  touch  one  of  the  hands, 
when  he  stopped  and  drew  back:  not  from  fear 
exactly,  but  from  a  kind  of  dread — something 
like  horror — as  he  became  more  familiar  with 
the  abnormal  weakness  and  debauchery  depicted 
in  this  besotted  countenance.  But  with  his  hor 
ror  and  his  shrinking  from  the  repellent  face  be- 

14  211 


The  Villa  Claudia 

fore  him,  came  the  same  pity  that  he  had  felt 
for  the  old  beggar  with  the  flute :  for  this  man 
reminded  him  strangely  of  Fra  Diavolo.  There 
was  the  same  hue  and  texture  of  the  skin,  the 
same  pendent  flesh  upon  the  cheeks,  the  same 
want  of  character  about  the  eyes  and  mouth. 
No  records  of  thought  or  struggle  were  there — 
in  short,  no  lines  of  character. 

Certain  facial  lines  are  out  of  place  in  youth : 
but  the  face  of  maturity,  without  them,  is  ab 
normal.  Abnormal  was  this  face  on  which 
Morris  gazed. 

He  felt  profoundly  thankful  that  this  new 
victim  of  the  Villa  Claudia  was  not  Lydon  Hol- 
lowell.  But  his  joy  was  brief.  Near  the  body, 
on  a  chair,  a  valise  was  resting:  and  as  his  eyes 
moved  carelessly  over  it,  he  straightened  up  with 
a  shock; — this  time  a  hideous  fear, — a  sense  of 
being  confronted  by  something  beyond  his  under 
standing.  On  the  bag  were  two  familiar  letters  : 

L.  H. 

And  the  bag  itself  was  familiar. 

With  perspiration  starting  out  upon  his  tem 
ples,  he  took  a  step  or  two  backward,  his  eyes 
212 


In  the  Chamber 

fixed  upon  the  face  before  him.  Who  could  it 
be  if  not  Hollowell?  And  after  all,  it — the  fig 
ure — might  not  be  dead!  It  might  be — not  a 
ghost,  of  course!  for  Morris  did  not  believe 
in  ghosts — but  it  might  be  an  illusion,  an  ap 
parition  of  his  own  fancy.  At  all  events  the 
room  had  a  sinister  record,  and  Morris  began  to 
fear  that  the  thing  upon  the  sofa — corpse,  ghost, 
or  phantasma  of  his  own  imagination — might 
arise  and  do  him  harm.  Already  there  had  been 
a  grewsome  death  in  this  room :  and  a  disappear 
ance  still  unexplained.  A  swift  glance  at  the 
dressing-table  increased  his  bewilderment — and 
his  horror.  Upon  it  lay  Hollowell's  silver 
brushes  and  oval  hand-glass,  his  monogram  on 
all. 

Another  glance  at  the  night-shirt  on  the  bed, 
now  close  beside  him,  and  he  recognized  a 
garment  that  he  and  Hollowell  had  bought  to 
gether,  in  a  little  shop  in  Verona.  He  remem 
bered  well  the  ridiculous  embroidery  on  the  col 
lar  and  down  the  front. 

Again,  as  he  gazed  with  straining  eyes  upon 
the  dead  man's  face,  he  whispered: 

"Hollowell!" 

And  again,  at  this  greater  distance,  he  saw  the 
213 


The  Villa  Claudia 

resemblance  to  his  friend — the  stiff  hair  about 
the  brow,  the  square  face  and  short  neck,  the 
light-blue  eyes.  Morris  retreated  a  step,  draw 
ing  a  hand  across  his  forehead.  The  very  air 
of  the  room  seemed  to  affect  his  nerves. 

The  barely  perceptible  perfume,  odor,  es 
sence,  or  whatever  it  might  be  which  he  had  for 
gotten  for  a  moment,  had  gained  in  strength. 
Suspicious  of  all  and  everything,  he  was  cool 
enough,  however,  to  realize  his  own  nervousness 
— that  he  was  afraid  to  approach  and  touch  the 
figure  on  the  lounge;  to  ascertain,  in  fact, 
whether  his  companion  was  alive  or  dead.  It 
seemed  to  be  Hollowell.  And  yet — it  could  not 
be.  In  short,  while  utterly  unlike,  he  still 
believed  it  must  be  his  friend. 

Without  taking  his  eyes  from  this  mysterious 
person,  Morris  moved  toward  the  door — si 
lently,  almost  stealthily.  He  felt  for  the  knob, 
drew  it  slowly  toward  him,  and  then,  after  a 
final  look  upon  the  strange,  yet  half-familiar 
face,  he  stepped  out  into  the  hall. 


214 


215 


No  doubt  'tis  useful  to  study  wisdom. 

Horace. 


216 


XVI 

SANTOVANO'S   VICTORY 

THREE  hours  later,  when  the  clocks  of 
Tivoli  were  striking  ten,  certain  people 
had  assembled  in  the  fateful  chamber. 
At  a  table  in  the  centre,  with  his  clerk  beside  him, 
sat   a   city   official.        The   clerk  was   writing. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  room,  near  the  door, 
two  men  who  spoke  in  whispers  moved  solemnly 
about  the  casket  they  were  closing. 

Against  the  wall,  .  between  Santovano  and 
Morris  Lane,  sat  Betty  Farnham.  This  little 
lady,  with  downcast  eyes,  held  a  handkerchief 
to  her  lips.  The  sensitive  face  was  paler  than 
usual,  and  the  handkerchief  was  there  to  aid  in 
the  suppression  of  an  occasional  sob.  But  the 
men  on  either  side  of  her  were  not  aware  that 
she  had  passed  a  sleepless  night — a  night  of 
mental  anguish,  followed  by  her  resignation  to 
a  disheartening  sacrifice.  Now,  all  her  thoughts 
were  with  Lydon  Hollowell.  She  felt  a  keen 
217 


The  Villa  Claudia 

remorse,  and  she  exaggerated  her  own  responsi 
bility.  Had  she  not  urged  Morris  and  his  friend 
to  come  here  ?  Mr.  Hollowell,  otherwise,  would 
have  been  alive  this  morning  and  tramping  gayly 
toward  Horace's  farm. 

Similar  thoughts,  but  with  himself  as  the  evil 
doer,  filled  Morris  with  a  like  remorse.  Through 
him  it  was,  and  to  be  with  him,  that  Hollowell 
came  to  the  Villa  Claudia. 

Santovano's  face  also  expressed  affliction.  But 
his  inward  sufferings  were  less  acute.  They  were 
by  no  means  unbearable.  While  sorry  for  the 
deceased,  and  while  regretting  that  Mr.  Hollo- 
well's  unfriendly  behavior  had  forced  this  trag 
edy,  he  was  consoled  by  the  completeness  of  the 
triumph  and  by  the  manner  of  its  achievement. 
It  had  been  quiet,  gentlemanly  and  artistic. 
There  was  also  enjoyment  in  the  prospect  of  a 
peaceable  marriage  with  his  promised  wife.  But 
of  these  consoling  thoughts  his  face  made  no  be 
trayal.  Its  sadness,  on  the  contrary,  excited  the 
compassion  of  the  youthful  clerk,  and  the  ad 
miration  of  Gasparo. 

The  city  official,  an  elderly  man  with  a  brown, 
thin  face  and  gray  mustache,  turned  to  Santo- 
vano  when  his  clerk  had  finished  writing. 
218 


Santovano's  Victory 

"The  identification  of  the  body  as  that  of  the 
Englishman,  the  Signer  Lydon  Hollowell,  is 
complete,  is  it  not  ?  The  American  gentleman  is 
positive?" 

Santovano  translated  the  question  to  Morris, 
who  bowed  to  the  city  official,  saying  in  Eng 
lish, 

"Yes,  sir.    I  am  positive." 

The  official  bowed  in  return.  Then  to  Santo 
vano: 

"The  features,  I  understand,  are  greatly 
altered  by  this — this  unusual,  and,  as  yet,  unex 
plained  manner  of  his  death.  But  he  was  iden 
tified,  I  am  informed,  by  his  clothing  and  by 
papers  in  his  pockets?" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  by  a  peculiar  joint  in  one  of 
his  fingers,  that  had  once  been  broken.  Also, 
by  his  watch  and  chain,  a  ring,  and  various  other 
articles." 

The  clerk  handed  the  paper  on  which  those 
articles  were  mentioned  to  his  chief,  who,  after 
looking  it  over,  turned  to  Betty  and  said,  with 
extreme  politeness, 

"We  beg  you  to  believe,  Signorina,  that  in 
asking  so  many  questions  we  are  acting  in  accord 
ance  with  an  exacting  duty — not  from  any  prefer- 
219 


The  Villa  Claudia 

ence  of  our  own.  We  shall  spare  your  feelings 
whenever  possible,  and  the  question  I  ask  is  not 
from  suspicion,  but  to  complete  the  investiga 
tion.  You,  as  mistress  of  the  house,  do  not  be 
lieve  this  gentleman's  death  was  due  to  any 
human  agency — that  is — to  any  personal  vio 
lence?" 

"No,  sir." 

"You  do  not  believe  any  person  in  the  house 
to  be  in  any  way  responsible  for  it?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir!" 

"You  do  not  believe  any  person  or  persons  In 
the  house  had  any  reason  for  desiring  the  death 
of  the  Signor  Lydon  Hollowell?" 

"No,  sir." 

Then,  turning  to  Santovano,  "Will  you 
kindly  put  that  question  to  the  American  gen 
tleman?" 

Santovano  put  the  question  to  Morris,  who 
gave  the  same  reply. 

"And  you,  Signor  Santovano,  do  you  know 
of  any  person  or  persons,  in  this  house  or  else 
where,  who  could  desire  this  man's  death?" 

"No,  sir,  I  can  think  of  no  one.  He  had  many 
friends,  but  no  enemies  to  my  knowledge." 

also,  then,  agree  with  the  Signorina 
220 


Santovano's  Victory 

Farnham  and  the  Signer  Lane  in  their  belief 
that  this  death  is  in  no  way  attributable  to  human 
agency,  either  intentional  or  by  accident?" 

"I  do." 

Again  the  clerk  wrote.  He  was  a  young  man 
with  large  black  eyes  and  an  immature  but  prom 
ising  mustache.  He  made  no  concealment  of  his 
interest  in  Betty  Farnham;  and  when  not  at 
work,  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face  in  open 
adoration.  "One  more  superfluous  lover," 
thought  Morris. 

As  the  clerk  wrote,  Morris  turned  his  head 
and  looked  through  the  open  window  to  the  gar 
den.  Above  the  sombre  foliage  of  the  cypresses 
was  a  patch  of  sky,  intensely  blue.  Lower  down 
he  could  see  the  tops  of  the  marble  columns  of 
the  old  temple  to  Bacchus  where  Hollowell,  yes 
terday  afternoon,  had  sat  and  talked.  Two 
quarrelling  birds,  as  he  looked,  alighted  on  one 
of  the  marble  shafts,  and  after  a  moment's  chat 
ter,  flew  off  again,  still  quarrelling.  Back  into 
the  room  he  turned  his  eyes,  to  a  farther  corner 
where  a  coffin  held  the  body  of  his  friend; — the 
jolly,  pleasure-loving,  but  ever  reliable  friend. 
And  he  thought  of  their  plans  for  the  coming 
week — the  little  journey  to  Paestum — and  later 
221 


The  Villa  Claudia 

on,  to  Sicily.  He  thought  of  the  shock  to  the 
mother  and  sister  in  England  who 

"Vuol  ella  avere  la  bonta  di  dirc'i,  Signo 
rina" — the  voice  of  the  city  official  arrested  his 
wandering  thoughts.  "Will  you  be  so  good, 
Signorina,  as  to  inform  us  where  the  deceased 
was  last  seen  alive?" 

"In  this  room." 

"And  who  was  the  person  who  last  saw 
him?" 

"Caterina  Testi,  a  servant." 

"At  what  hour,  Signorina  ?" 

"About  eleven  o'clock,  I  think,"  and  she 
looked  inquiringly  at  Santovano. 

Santovano  nodded.  "Yes,  about  eleven 
o'clock." 

"Did  she  come  to  the  chamber  at  his  request 
— that  is,  did  she  come  in  answer  to  a  call — a 
ring  of  the  bell,  or  any  summons  of  that  nature  ?" 

"I  think  not.    She  merely  showed  him  to  this 


room." 


"She  brought  him  here  instead  of  to  the  room 
you  intended?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"Entirely  by  mistake,  you  believe?" 
"Oh,  yes,  sir !    Entirely  by  mistake !" 
222 


Santovano's  Victory 

"I  am  happy,  Signorina,  that  you  can  give  me 
that  assurance.  Such  is  the  history — and  the 
reputation — of  this  chamber  that  if  any  person 
were  suspected  of  having  persuaded  the  English 
gentleman,  in  his  ignorance,  to  sleep  here,  it 
would  have  the  appearance  of  malicious  intent; 
and  the  consequences  might  be  serious.  Will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  send  for  Caterina  Testi  ?" 

"She  is  no  longer  here." 

"Not  far  away,  I  hope,  as  her  testimony  may 
be  important." 

"She  has  gone  to  Rome." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.    "Gone  to  Rome !" 

"Yes." 

The  official  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
frowned. 

Morris's  eyes,  at  that  moment,  happened  to 
be  resting,  in  an  absent  way,  upon  another  silent 
observer  of  these  proceedings,  a  man  who  was 
standing  in  the  background,  away  from  the  win 
dow.  As  these  last  words  were  uttered — Italian 
words,  whose  significance  was  lost  to  Morris, 
he  noticed  that  this  face,  already  somewhat 
striking  from  its  pallor,  became  whiter  still. 

The  man's  eyes,  of  a  sudden,  were  fixed  in 
terror,  first  upon  the  city  official,  then  upon  San- 
223 


The  Villa  Claudia 

tovano.  As  Morris  had  already  been  startled 
once  that  day  by  an  unexpected  face  in  this  apart 
ment,  he  straightened  up  and  gave  the  keenest 
attention.  And  he  recognized,  in  this  pallid 
countenance,  as  he  looked  more  closely,  the  per 
son  whom  he  had  mistaken  yesterday  for  a  New 
England  clergyman.  And  the  thought  occurred 
to  Morris — suggested  partly  by  the  solemnity  of 
the  scene  about  him — that  a  guilty  man  would 
act  in  just  that  way  when  confronted  with  the 
proofs  of  his  crime.  He  wished  to  know  more 
of  this  anxious  person,  but  the  present  moment 
was  not  the  time  for  asking  questions  of  Betty 
or  Santovano. 

"That  was  done,"  said  Santovano,  in  his  quiet, 
full,  well-modulated  voice,  "at  my  suggestion. 
Had  the  girl  remained  here  after  realizing  the 
tragic  consequences  of  her  mistake,  she  might 
have  become  ill  or  hysterical ;  and  anything  like 
a  disturbance  would  have  reached  the  ears  of 
Madame  Capodilista,  who,  as  you  know,  is  lying 
ill  upstairs.  We  are  using  every  precaution  to 
keep  her  from  any  knowledge  of  this  affair.  In 
her  present  condition  the  slightest  excitement 
might  have  serious  results.  Therefore,  I  lost 
no  time  in  getting  this  servant  out  of  the  house 
224 


Santovano's  Victory 

and  off  to  her  own  home  as  quickly  and  as  quietly 
as  possible." 

"Madame  Capodilista's  condition,"  said  the 
city  official,  "should  certainly  be  considered.  It 
is  regrettable,  however,  that  there  should  be  so 
much  delay  in  procuring  this  servant's  testi 
mony." 

"She  could  give  no  testimony  that  you  would 
value.  I  took  pains  to  question  her  this  morning 
and  found  that  she  merely  came  to  the  door  of 
this  chamber  with  my  friend,  opened  it  for  him 
to  enter,  and  closed  it  after  him." 

"Did  she  happen  to  notice  his  appearance?" 

"Yes.  I  questioned  her  very  closely  regarding 
it.  She  observed  nothing  unusual.  She  said  he 
smiled  pleasantly,  and  he  said  'good-night'  to 
her  in  Italian." 

"Thanks.  Your  statement,  Signer  Santo- 
vano,  saves  us  the  delay  of  sending  for  the 
girl." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Morris  saw  a  surpris 
ing  change  come  over  the  face  of  the  person  he 
had  mistaken  for  a  New  England  clergyman. 
The  look  of  terror  gave  way  to  an  involuntary 
smile  of  relief,  and  Morris,  as  he  watched  the 
face,  saw  the  color  slowly  return. 
225 


The  Villa  Claudia 

When  the  clerk  had  inscribed  this  testimony, 
the  city  official  turned  to  a  gentleman  at  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  a  man  of  seventy,  erect  and 
well  preserved,  who  stood  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  paying  close  attention  to  the  proceedings. 
His  white  hair  and  beard  were  cut  close,  and  his 
expression,  at  first  glance — with  his  heavy  eye 
brows  and  Roman  nose — appeared  somewhat 
ferocious.  It  was  into  this  face  that  Betty  Farn- 
ham,  during  the  trying  moments  of  the  inquest, 
looked  frequently  for  support.  And  the  support 
was  unfailing.  It  came  in  various  forms, — a 
slight  movement  of  the  head  or  eyebrows;  a 
faint  smile,  or  a  barely  perceptible  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  which  might  have  any  meaning.  But 
he  and  Betty  were  old  friends,  and  the  under 
standing  was  complete. 

"And  now,  Dr.  Olibrio,  may  I  request  your 
statement  as  to  the  cause  of  the  Signor  Lydon 
Hollowell's  death  ?  There  are  no  outward  signs 
of  violence  ?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Nor  traces  of  poison?" 

"I  believe  not.  If  he  died  of  poison  it  was  a 
poison  of  whose  action  we  have  no  knowledge." 

"Then  what  is  your  opinion?" 
226 


Santovano's  Victory 

Dr.  Olibrio  frowned.  "The  condition  of  the 
body  is  so  abnormal  that  the  immediate  cause  of 
death  is  somewhat  speculative.  A  thorough  ex 
amination  is  not  permitted." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  gentleman  leaves  a  sister  and  mother, 
and  they  would  seriously  object  to  it; — at  least, 
so  his  American  friend  informs  us." 

"That  is  unfortunate." 

"Possibly;  but  I  think  we  should  discover 
nothing  we  do  not  know  already.  The  appear 
ance  of  the  body  is  precisely  the  same  as  in  the 
case  of  Signer  Capodilista,  our  lamented  friend. 
And  in  his  case  we  made  a  careful  examina 
tion." 

"Then  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  you 
consider  the  immediate  reason  for  death,  in  both 


cases." 


"Organic  waste,  and  complete  exhaustion  of 
the  system.  A  wearing  away  of  all  the  tissues; 
a  feeble  condition  of  the  blood  with  a  surprising 
degeneration  of  certain  vital  organs,  especially 
the  heart,  brain  and  kidneys;  such  a  condition  as 
exists  in  cases  of  death  from  old  age.  A  wear 
ing  out  of  the  machinery,  in  short." 

"That  is  the  only  cause?" 
15  227 


:i 


The    £KC    wwdd   h 


Santovano's  Victory 

contentment.  As  with  Signer  Capodilista  the 
expression  is  so  happy,  so  sensuously  satisfied,  as 
to  be  almost  imbecile." 

"But  to  what  shall  we  attribute  the  immediate 
cause  of  this  death?" 

"In  the  absence  of  more  positive  knowledge 
I  will  pronounce  it  heart  failure  from  extreme 
exhaustion,  brought  on  by  some  cause  to  me  un 
known." 

Dr.  Olibrio's  words  were  written  down,  and 
the  inquest  came  to  an  end. 

As  Betty  was  leaving  the  room  she  turned  to 
Santovano  and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Then  you  will  take  the  next  train  to  Rome 
and  attend  to  that  matter  of  sending  the  body 
to  England,  as  you  promised?" 

"Certainly." 

"You  can  do  it  so  much  better  than  Morris, 
as  he  speaks  no  Italian." 

"And  I  do  it  with  pleasure." 

"When  does  the  train  go?" 

"Not  for  an  hour  or  more." 

"Then  will  you  please  wait  here,  just  a  little, 
until  these  people  are  gone,  and  close  the  window 
and  lock  the  door?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish." 
229 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"I  ask  it  because  the  servants  are  all  afraid  to 
come  in  here,  now." 

"I  am  delighted  to  be  of  any  service,  Eliza- 
betta.  Is  that  all  I  can  do?" 

uThat  is  all,  thank  you,"  and  she  turned  away, 
and  left  the  room. 

When  Dr.  Olibrio  and  the  city  official  with 
his  clerk  had  departed,  Morris  turned  to  Santo- 
vano  and  extended  his  hand. 

"I  appreciate  all  your  kindness,  and  I  thank 
you  sincerely." 

Santovano  took  the  hand  and  returned  the 
friendly  pressure.  "I  am  very  glad,  indeed,  to 
be  of  any  service,  Mr.  Lane.  I  was  very  fond 
of  Hollowell.  His  death  is  a  sad  loss  to  all  his 
friends — and  a  very  hard  thing  for  his  mother 
and  sister." 

"Terrible !"  said  Morris.  "I  wrote  them  a 
long  letter  this  morning.  But  tell  me,  what 
caused  his  death?" 

Santovano  raised  his  head.  "I  have  no  idea, 
Mr.  Lane." 

"I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  do  not  believe 
in  ghosts?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Nor  in  haunted  rooms?" 
230 


Santovano's  Victory 

"Never." 

"Then  what  killed  Hollowell?" 

Santovano  looked  searchingly  into  the  Amer 
ican's  eyes.  But  he  saw  no  suspicion;  only  a 
desire  for  more  light. 

"I  wish  I  could  answer  that  question,  Mr. 
Lane.  The  mystery,  whatever  it  is,  seems  se 
curely  hidden." 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  in  silence, 
their  eyes  upon  the  coffin  as  it  was  borne  from 
the  apartment. 

"Did  you  notice,"  said  the  Italian,  in  a  lower 
tone,  "the  peculiar  expression  on  poor  Hollo- 
well's  face?" 

"Yes.  I  hardly  recognized  him.  It  seemed 
another  man." 

"Did  it  recall  to  you  in  any  way  our  conversa 
tion  of  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  it  did !    And  you  also  thought  of  it?" 

Santovano  nodded  solemnly.  "And  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  his  wish  had  been  granted ; 
the  wish  he  and  I  expressed  for  our  share  of 
pleasure  in  the  briefest  time." 

"Perhaps.    But  at  what  a  price !" 

"The  price  we  were  willing  to  pay." 

As  Morris,  with  a  melancholy  face,  walked 
231 


The  Villa  Claudia 

out  of  the  room,  Santovano  smiled:  he  glanced 
toward  the  spot  where  the  coffin  had  been  lying 
and  he  murmured  in  Italian : 

"But  to  pay  the  price  without  the  full  reward, 
my  precious  Hollowell,  is  unwise.  Such  was 
never  my  own  intention." 


232 


From  an  ancient  coin. 


XVII 


233 


Where  it  hath  slept  full  many  a  year. 


Horace. 


234 


XVII 
WORD    FROM    HORACE 

ALONE  in  the  room,  Santovano  turned 
and  moved  toward  the  window.     At  an 
unexpected  sound  he  stooped  and  looked 
behind  him.     It  was  only  the  door,  however,  as 
it  closed  after  the  departing  American.     But  it 
seemed  to  close  of  its  own  volition.     The  same 
sound  had  startled  Morris;  and,  like  Morris, 
Santovano  was  thereupon  reminded  of  the  sinis 
ter  record  of  the  room.     Also,  like  Morris,  he 
suspected,  for  an  instant,  the  influence  of  some 
unseen  power.     Having  no  desire  to  be  held  a 
prisoner  in  so  fateful  a  place,  he  preferred  to 
assure  himself  that  the  lock  had  not  been  turned 
by  somebody  on  the  other  side.    So  he  stepped  to 
the  door  and  opened  it.    The  hall  was  empty. 
The  spirit  of  Hollowell,  perchance! 
A  shrug  of  contempt  for  a  thought  so  puerile. 
Then,  with  firm  steps,  he  walked  to  the  win- 
235 


The  Villa  Claudia 

dow  and  closed  it.  His  hand  was  on  one  of  the 
heavy  curtains,  to  draw  them  together,  when  he 
paused,  then  loosened  his  hold.  He  folded  his 
arms  and  surveyed  the  room.  Santovano  was 
neither  timid  nor  sentimental.  In  the  few  se 
rious  matters  of  his  life — as  in  archaeology — he 
was  capable  of  enthusiasm;  but  he  was  always 
logical. 

"What  is  the  trick?"  he  murmured.  "How  is 
it  done  ?  Come  forward,  ghost,  and  let  us  talk 
it  over." 

Down  the  room  he  sauntered,  scrutinizing  the 
ceiling  and  the  floor,  and  tapping  the  wall  in 
places  for  a  secret  door. 

"Come  out  into  the  daylight,  O  skilful  curse, 
and  show  yourself.  As  a  brother  artist  I  wish 
to  congratulate  you." 

He  paused,  but  nothing  appeared.  He  leaned 
upon  the  sofa,  where  Hollowell  had  reclined,  and 
he  looked  searchingly  over  that  end  of  the  cham 
ber  for  some  sign  or  token — some  clew  to  its  re 
lentless  mystery.  On  all  things,  however,  lay 
an  air  of  peace  and  innocence,  the  restful  silence 
of  a  comfortable  abode.  Is  there  some  poison 
in  the  air,  he  wondered,  that  kills  the  man  who 
breathes  it  long  enough?  A  deadly  plant  or 
236 


Word  from  Horace 

flower  hidden  in  some  secret  place, — between  the 
leaves  of  a  book  or  in  a  drawer  ?  Does  the  ghost 
of  some  departed  victim  frighten  men  to  death 
— or  drive  them  from  the  world,  never  to  be 
seen  again — like  poor  di  Forli  ? 

No,  not  that ! 

Judging  from  the  faces  of  the  two  latest  vic 
tims,  it  is  a  pleasanter  thing  than  fear  that  kills. 
Can  it  be  some  creature,  divinely  seductive — 
some  Helen  of  Troy,  Diane  de  Poitiers,  or 
Ninon  de  1'Enclos? — or,  more  likely,  a  Cleo 
patra  or  Lucretia  Borgia,  whose  love  is  death — 
a  happy,  sensuous  death? 

He  held  up  his  head  and  smiled. 

"If  so,  come  forth,  O  fair  one,  and  touch 
your  lips  to  mine !  Kill  me  with  love.  I  ask  for 
nothing  better." 

From  the  silent  chamber  there  was  no  re 
ply.  The  tinted  walls,  the  furniture  of  various 
styles  and  epochs,  the  pictures  and  the  Roman 
relics,  all  preserved  their  secret,  and  the  general 
aspect  of  the  room  remained,  as  ever,  harmless, 
homelike,  and  inviting. 

Now,  while  at  his  end  of  the  chamber,  Santo- 
vano  became  conscious  of  a  barely  perceptible 
odor  which  he  had  noticed  on  a  previous  occasion. 
237 


The  Villa  Claudia 

He  remembered  it,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath. 
Then,  closing  his  eyes,  he  again  inhaled,  slowly 
and  with  a  sense  of  pleasure.  For  this  odor, 
aromatic  and  fragrant,  subtle,  yet  definite, 
seemed  to  stir  his  imagination.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  moved  slowly  toward  the  corner  to  in 
vestigate  the  source  of  this  mysterious  exhala 
tion.  For,  in  that  direction,  it  was  more  notice 
able. 

Of  a  sudden  his  face  lit  up,  and  he  stopped, 
involuntarily.  Before  him,  within  his  reach, 
stood  an  object  that  filled  him  with  an  unexpected 
rapture.  From  his  face  the  bravado  vanished. 
Info  his  eyes  came  a  look  of  surprise — of  incre 
dulity;  and  from  his  lips  an  exclamation  of  de 
light.  He  seemed — and  he  was  for  the  time — 
transformed  from  a  reckless  adventurer  to  a  self- 
forgetful  enthusiast.  All  thoughts  of  ghosts  or 
haunted  rooms  were  driven  from  his  mind.  The 
heart  of  the  archaeologist  was  once  more  aflame. 

For  here,  before  his  eyes,  on  an  old  sar 
cophagus,  stood  one  of  the  missing  jars  of 
Horace ! 

And  he  knew  it  well.    There  was  no  mistake. 
All  was  familiar — the  size,  the  color,  the  Gre 
cian  shape,  the  incrusted  surface.    It  stood  about 
238 


Word  from   Horace 

two  feet  in  height,  and  might  hold  about  half  a 
gallon.  And  it  came  from  Rhodes,  originally. 
This  he  knew,  as  a  connoisseur  of  ancient  pot 
tery;  and  from  Rhodes  came  the  best  amphorae. 
Kneeling  before  this  treasure,  he  turned  it 
slowly  around,  gently,  lovingly,  with  the  joy 
and  the  enthusiasm  known  only  to  the  victorious 
antiquarian. 

The  ancient  sealing  of  pitch  and  gypsum  about 
the  cork  had  been  disturbed,  but  the  jar  itself 
was  unbroken.  The  thought  that  this  amphora 
with  its  contents  had  been  the  special  care  of 
Horace  himself  filled  Santovano  with  a  reverent 
ecstasy.  He  recalled  the  fact  that  the  historian 
Procopius  in  560  A.D.,  alluded  to  a  little  cere 
mony,  or  celebration,  by  Maecenas  and  Horace 
at  a  temple  of  Bacchus  in  Tivoli.  Both  Santo 
vano  and  di  Forli  had  spoken  of  it  on  the  day 
they  discovered  the  amphorae  with  the  verse  of 
Horace.  And  now,  perhaps,  he  was  again  in 
touch  with  the  poet ! 

As  he  caressed  this  priceless  vessel  he  found, 
by  a  little  coaxing  of  his  fingers,  that  the  deposit 
of  centuries  upon  its  surface — the  grimy  coating 
of  lime  and  earth  and  ashes — came  off  in  flakes. 
And  his  heart  beat  faster  as  he  discovered  that 

239 


The  Villa  Claudia 

the  removal  of  the  crust  toward  the  bottom  of 
the  jar  revealed  Roman  letters  upon  the  ancient 
surface.  These  letters,  painted  in  a  brownish 
black,  were  as  sharp  and  clear  upon  the  yellow 
clay  as  when  first  inscribed,  more  than  nineteen 
centuries  ago ! 

Further  removal  of  this  coating  disclosed  sev 
eral  lines  in  Latin,  and  a  name  that  caused  his 
eyes  to  brighten — 

QUINTUS    HORATIUS    FLACCUS 

Rapidly,  yet  with  infinite  care,  Santovano  un 
covered  the  whole  inscription.  Then  with  greedy 
eyes,  and  with  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  lan 
guage,  he  read  a  message  from  the  immortal 
poet.  Roughly  translated,  the  purport  of  the 
lines  was  this: 

MARCUS    LOLLIUS,   CONSUL    WITH    Q.    /EMILI- 

us. 

TO  LOVERS  YET  UNBORN,  QUINTUS  HORATIUS 
FLACCUS  SENDS  GREETING  WITH  THIS  JUG  OF 
BEST  FALERNIAN.  CHOICEST  WINE  OF  CHOIC 
EST  VINTAGE  SHOULD  FOREVER  RIPEN  AND 
IMPROVE.  SO,  FRIENDS,  LET  IT  SLEEP  IN 
PEACE  DURING  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  FROM 
THIS  SEPTEMBER,  736  A.  U.  C.  THEN,  HE 
24O 


Word  from  Horace 

WHO    SIPS    SHALL    BE    LIFTED  TO   OLYMPUS  AND 
TASTE    THE    JOY    OF    ALL    IMAGININGS. 

AND    THOU,     FALERNIAN,     BRING     GOOD    FOR 
TUNE    TO    SOME    HONEST    LOVER. 

Santovano,  for  a  moment,  stood  motionless. 
In  awe  he  gazed  upon  the  vase. 

"After  one  hundred  years!"  he  murmured. 
"And  now  'tis  after  nineteen  hundred  years! 
Not  often  does  one  meet  with  wine  that  counts 
its  age  by  centuries !" 

Carefully  he  took  hold  of  the  cork,  thickly 
coated,  originally,  with  pitch  and  gypsum,  now 
loose  in  the  neck  of  the  jar.  It  came  out  easily. 
And  as  it  came  out  he  discovered  the  source  of 
the  subtle  odor  pervading  the  apartment.  For 
now,  holding  his  face  over  the  amphora,  he  in 
haled,  instead  of  a  subtle  odor,  a  luscious,  full- 
flavored  aroma  almost  intoxicating  in  its 
strength.  Again  and  again  he  inhaled  it,  in  an 
ecstasy  half  sensuous,  half  antiquarian.  With 
half-closed  eyes  he  murmured, 

"Falernian — old  Falernian — from  Horace 
and  Maecenas!" 

Then,  as  he  remembered  the  nineteen  hundred 
years  since  those  lines  were  written — since  Hor 
ace  had  known  this  jar — he  added,  sadly, 
241 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Wine  no  longer — merely  a  crust  of  hard 
ened  dregs  upon  the  bottom." 

But  surely  dregs  alone  could  not  give  forth 
so  fresh  and  full  an  odor — an  odor  as  from  rich 
est  wine.  In  spite  of  its  many  centuries  there 
must  be  something  more  than  dregs.  No  life 
less,  dry  deposit  could  so  fill  the  nostrils  and 
affect  the  brain. 

Gently,  yet  with  a  sudden  movement,  he 
tipped  the  vessel  and  heard  the  unmistakable 
splashing  of  a  liquid  down  within.  Its  seductive 
fragrance  brought  a  yearning  for  deeper  knowl 
edge — for  a  closer  acquaintance  with  this  nectar 
of  the  ancients.  In  seeking  some  smaller  vessel* 
wherewith  to  taste  it  he  detected,  behind  the  jar 
itself,  a  wine-glass — placed  there,  it  seemed,  by 
a  thoughtful  providence — as  if  the  gods  were 
with  him.  Piously,  with  infinite  care,  he  poured 
forth  the  precious  liquid.  It  showed  the  rich, 
full  yellow  of  the  classic  Falernian.  And  as 
Santovano  held  it  aloft,  between  himself  and  the 
light,  the  contents  of  the  little  wine-glass  shim 
mered  like  liquid  gold. 

"Bottled  sunshine!"  he  mused,  his  eyes  feast 
ing  upon  the  color.     "Yes,  the  sunshine  in  the 
grapes  of  Tibur — of  nineteen  centuries  ago." 
242 


Word   from  Horace 

But  he  noticed  that  the  wine,  while  perfectly 
clear,  was  thicker  than  ordinary  wine,  more  like 
a  cordial  in  body.  Like  a  cordial,  too,  its  odor 
was  pungent  and  aromatic.  So  strong,  in  fact, 
and  so  penetrating  its  exhalation  that  the  fumes 
had  already  reached  his  brain,  and  he  seemed  to 
experience,  in  advance,  certain  pleasurable  sensa 
tions:  as  of  a  gentle,  but  divine  intoxication. 
With  his  eyes  upon  this  cup  of  quivering  sunlight 
he  murmured, 

"Your  health,  dear  Horace.  In  the  wine  you 
loved  and  sang  I  drink  to  your  happiness  among 
your  own  gods.  May  all  the  pleasures  of  Olym 
pus  be  forever  yours." 

He  put  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

With  the  first  swallow,  he  felt  the  sudden 
exhilaration  of  a  quickened  life — of  a  fresher 
existence.  Every  nerve,  from  head  to  foot,  tin 
gled  with  a  responsive  thrill. 

This  mental  exhilaration  created  a  singular 
lightness  of  brain  and  body.  He  began  to  feel 
that  by  his  own  volition  he  could  float  upward 
and  away — into  higher  worlds.  No  pleasure- 
loving  mortal  could  resist  another  taste. 

"Good  fortune  to  some  honest  lover?    Well, 
the  young  American  needs  cheering." 
16  243 


The  Villa  Claudia 

There  was  mockery  in  his  smile  as  he  added, 

"Here's  one  more  sip  to  Mr.  Lane — better 
luck  to  him  another  time." 

Again  the  nectar  passed  his  lips.  The  glass 
was  still  half  full,  yet  never  in  his  life  had  he 
enjoyed,  in  brain  and  body,  a  happiness  so  sud 
den  and  so  complete. 

In  obedience  to  a  craving  yet  unsatisfied  he 
was  raising  the  glass  once  more  to  his  lips,  when 
he  paused;  then,  with  a  movement  of  decision, 
replaced  it  upon  the  top  of  the  sarcophagus.  His 
own  wisdom — a  wisdom  acquired  from  much  ex 
perience  with  wines — told  him  that  a  liquor 
so  potent  and  so  rapid  in  its  effect  was  capable  of 
mischief.  But  no  previous  experience  of  his  own 
could  tell  him  that  this  particular  wine,  in  its 
journey  through  the  ages,  had  not  only  attained 
its  own  perfection,  but  had  gone  far  beyond ;  that 
while  gaining  in  force  and  flavor  it  had  become 
a  deadly  drug.  Although  feeling  the  ecstasy  of 
a  heavenly  contentment  stealing  over  him,  Santo- 
vano  was  yet  himself.  Still  in  perfect  control 
of  all  his  faculties,  he  realized  that  with  every 
beat  of  his  heart  he  was  becoming  more  serenely 
indifferent  to  the  world  about  him.  He  had  no 
thought  of  resistance — and  no  desire.  With 
244 


Word  from   Horace 

half-closed  eyes  and  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  he 
moved  with  extended  hands — as  a  blind  man 
gropes — toward  the  sofa,  upon  which  he  slowly 
sank,  and  there,  at  ease,  reclined. 

Into  his  brain  came  golden  dreams,  unfolding 
— and  unfolding — into  the  unspeakable  joys  of 
an  existence  immeasurably  happier,  completer 
and  more  delectable  than  he  had  ever  conceived. 
His  wildest  ambitions,  his  appetites,  his  passions, 
all  were  gratified.  All  human  joys  intensified 
a  thousandfold  pursued  and  overpowered  him 
in  these  Elysian  Fields.  The  women  he  had 
loved  were  his. 

As  he  slumbered,  with  upturned  face,  the 
smile  grew  more  and  more  like  the  smile  on  the 
lips  of  Hollowell  when  found  upon  this  same 
divan. 

For  now,  to  Santovano,  had  come 

"THE    JOY    OF    ALL    IMAGININGS." 


245 


0  precious  jar,  whose  summers  date 
Like  mine,  from  Manlius'  consulate, 

1  know  not  whether  in  your  breast 
Lie  maudlin  wail  or  merry  jest, 
Or  fumes  of  soft  caressing  sleep, 

Or  what  more  potent  charms  you  keep ; 
But  this  I  know,  your  ripened  power 
Befits  some  choicely  festive  hour  ! 

Horace, 


246 


247 


XVIII 
THE    PRICE 

THE  smile  still  lingered  upon  his  lips 
when    Santovano    returned    to     earth. 
Slowly  he  awoke,  and  with  effort.     For 
the  joys  of  Olympus  were  enthralling,  and  not 
easily  relinquished. 

His  eyes,  as  they  moved  about  the  chamber, 
brought  no  enlightenment  to  his  brain — no  re 
membrance  of  the  past.  The  room  and  its  con 
tents  were  strangers  to  him.  For  a  period  of 
time  he  lay  without  moving.  This  unexpected 
entry  into  another  life  was  bewildering.  Had 
he  been  dreaming,  and  was  he  now  awake  ?  Or, 
was  this  a  dream  and  the  other  rapturous  career 
the  real  existence  ?  His  mind  was  like  a  splendid 
orchestra  when  the  music  ceases : — the  silent  air 
still  throbbing  with  melody.  But  for  Santovano 
the  harmonies  were  forever  gone.  The  orchestra 
had  disbanded.  The  silence  was  for  all  time. 
248 


The  Price 

After  closing  his  eyes  during  another  period 
he  made  a  fresh  attempt  toward  some  recogni 
tion  of  his  whereabouts.  He  succeeded  in  recall 
ing  this  chamber,  vaguely,  as  a  place  which  he 
had  known  of  old.  But  how  many  years  had 
passed  since  that  nebulous  epoch  he  had  no  con 
ception.  Through  the  large  window  at  the  end 
of  the  apartment  he  could  see  the  tops  of  cypress- 
trees,  dark  masses  against  a  deep-blue  sky.  And 
the  sky  was  brighter  toward  the  horizon.  From 
the  sunlight  upon  the  wall,  up  near  the  ceiling, 
he  guessed  the  time  to  be  early  morning,  or  late 
in  the  afternoon, — but  of  what  day?  of  what 
year?  He  could  remember  nothing  that  had 
happened  within  an  indefinite  length  of  time. 

The  effort  wearied  him,  and  again  he  closed 
his  eyes. 

By  summoning  all  his  will  power,  he  arose  and 
stood  up,  with  one  hand,  for  support,  upon  the 
arm  of  the  lounge;  and  he  marvelled,  in  a  dull 
way,  at  the  irresponsiveness  of  his  muscles  and 
the  stiffness  of  his  joints.  His  back  and  legs 
might  have  belonged  to  another  person — to 
some  invalid,  or  baby.  But  the  condition  of  his 
brain  caused  him  greater  alarm.  Control  over 
his  own  thoughts,  over  his  memory  and  will,  had 
249 


The  Villa  Claudia 

forsaken  him.  With  closed  eyes  and  a  weary 
frown  he  pressed  a  hand  against  his  temples. 
Then,  drawing  a  long  breath,  he  straightened 
up;  but  his  shoulders,  the  next  moment,  sank 
down  and  forward. 

At  the  portals  of  his  memory  he  knocked  in 
vain.  From  its  empty  chambers  came  no  re 
sponse.  Not  an  incident  of  his  life  could  he 
recall. 

His  own  identity  eluded  him.  He  became 
feebly  conscious,  however,  of  having  visited  this 
room  some  years  ago.  But  just  how  long  ago, 
or  for  what  purpose,  he  strove  in  vain  to  remem 
ber.  Now,  standing  in  bewilderment,  like  a  lost 
child,  groping  for  a  ray  of  light  upon  the  past, 
he  began  to  realize  the  presence  of  an  odor,  as 
of  spirits — or  a  drug.  Having  once  perceived 
its  presence  the  odor  seemed  to  increase  in 
strength,  and  became  oppressive.  It  created,  in 
fact,  a  sense  of  nausea.  More  from  instinct  than 
from  any  exercise  of  will,  he  looked  around  him 
with  a  desire  to  escape  it.  Starting  toward  a 
door,  he  staggered  and  nearly  fell :  for  he  seemed 
to  be  learning  the  uses — and  the  limitations — of 
a  pair  of  unfamiliar  legs.  And  they  were  not  the 
best.  Communication  between  brain  and  limbs 
250 


The  Price 

seemed  incomplete.  When  his  trembling  hand 
failed  at  first  to  grasp  the  door-knob  Santovano 
smiled  and  murmured,  "Somebody  has  been 
drinking,  I  fear." 

The  symptoms  were  not  unfamiliar,  particu 
larly  after  a  night  of  pleasure.  But  he  opened 
the  door  and  stepped  out  into  a  corridor.  At 
once  he  felt  the  benefit  of  a  purer  air.  His  brain 
responded,  and  as  he  began  to  remember  slowly, 
and  with  much  uncertainty,  a  few  disconnected 
incidents  of  his  own  career,  it  flashed  upon  him, 
of  a  sudden,  that  this  was  the  villa  of  his  be 
trothed.  And  he  almost  recalled  her  name. 
Turning  his  steps  toward  the  center  of  the  build 
ing,  he  approached  a  marble  staircase  in  a  more 
spacious  hall — striving  vainly  as  he  walked,  to 
recall  the  lady's  name.  Her  appearance,  how 
ever,  he  remembered — erect,  and  slight  of  fig 
ure;  dark  eyes  with  delicate  eyebrows  high 
above.  A  haughty  little  person,  and  extremely 
pretty;  yes,  more  than  pretty 

He  stopped,  and  stared. 

Eccof    The  girl  herself!    Santovano  blinked 

and  strained  his  eyes  for  clearer  vision.    Yes,  it 

was  she !     And  her  face,  as  he  looked,  seemed 

to  dispel  the  clouds  in  his  brain  and  to  restore, 

251 


The  Villa  Claudia 

for  a  period,  fresher  memories  of  an  interesting 
epoch.  Across  the  hall  she  was  walking  slowly, 
a  young  man  at  her  side,  both  with  downcast 
eyes,  in  a  mournful  study,  apparently,  of  the 
marble  floor.  The  young  man's  face,  round  and 
boyish,  seemed  familiar — but  where  had  he  seen 
him? 

Through  a  large  window  that  opened  to  the 
floor  the  afternoon  sun,  now  low  in  the  western 
sky,  illumined  the  hall,  and  sent  its  rays,  in 
golden  patches,  upon  the  stairs  and  marble  pave 
ment  and  upon  the  two  young  people.  Santo- 
vano  could  see,  outside  the  window,  a  terrace 
he  had  known  of  old;  and  beyond  the  terrace  a 
gorgeous  garden.  As  he  gazed  upon  the  maiden, 
his  heart  beat  faster,  for  he  remembered  that 
she  was  all  his  own!  But  this  happy  sense  of 
ownership  suffered  a  relapse.  The  young  couple, 
although  they  passed  beyond  his  vision,  remained 
clearly  reflected  in  one  of  the  mirrors  of  the  hall 
as  they  stood  by  the  door.  And  the  words  of 
parting  came  clearly  to  the  listener's  ears.  Even 
through  the  mirror  the  changing  color  could  be 
seen  in  the  cheeks  of  the  round-faced  youth. 

As  they  shook  hands,   at  parting,   the  girl 
looked  up  earnestly  into  his  face. 
252 


The  Price 

"You  will  write  me  from  England,  won't  you, 
and  tell  me  of  that  poor  mother  and  sister?" 

"Yes." 

"Promise." 

"Yes,  I  promise." 

"And  I  shall  write  you,  Morris,  and  tell  you 
everything  that  can  possibly  interest  you." 

"Thank  you,  Betty." 

The  young  man  made  a  movement  to  with 
draw  his  hand,  and  Santovano  could  see  that 
she  held  it  more  tightly. 

"And,  little  Morris,  we  will  keep  alive  our 
old  friendship,  and  never  again  let  it  be  forgot 
ten." 

"Of  course!    Yes — of  course!" 

"And  I  shall  write  to  you  occasionally,  and 
you  will  always  answer,  even  if  it  is  a  bore." 

"A  bore!  Of  course — I  mean — I  shall  be 
glad  enough  to  get  a  letter !  Well,  good-by." 

"Good-by,  Morris." 

The  door  closed  and  the  blushing  youth  de 
parted.  But  the  girl,  at  the  open  door,  stood 
looking  after  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight — a 
very  long  time,  it  seemed  to  Santovano.  At 
last  the  door  was  closed  and  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  wept;  not  gently,  but  in  con 
vulsive  sobs. 

253 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Why  should  she  weep  ?  Was  this  young  man 
— yes — dimly  Santovano  remembered  him  as 
another  lover.  But  he  also  remembered  that  he, 
Santovano,  was  the  affianced  husband. 

He  stepped  forth,  out  into  the  hall.  At  the 
sound  of  his  feet  upon  the  marble  floor  the  little 
lady  raised  her  face  and  hastily  dried  her  eyes 
with  a  handkerchief.  Then,  slowly,  she  came 
toward  him.  With  the  changing  color  in  her 
face,  the  glistening  eyes,  the  startled  air,  and 
the  effort,  withal,  to  appear  unmoved,  she  be 
came  yet  more  entrancing.  But  the  affianced 
husband,  with  a  formal  inclination  of  the  head, 
spoke  coldly,  and  he  addressed  her  in  Italian. 

uMay  I  ask  if  that  gentleman  is  a  relative  of 
yours?" 

His  voice  seemed  unfamiliar  to  himself;  more 
uneven,  thinner,  and  it  came  with  an  effort.  She 
appeared  surprised  at  the  question,  but  answered, 
quietly, 

"No,  Signor." 

"Then  am  I  permitted  to  inquire  why  his  de 
parture  should  cause  you  so  deep  a  grief  ?" 

She  hesitated,  frowned,  and  moved  a  step  or 
two  nearer  the  window  for  a  better  light  upon 
his  face.     "He  is  a  very  old  friend." 
254 


The  Price 

"Not  old  in  years,  surely, — not  an  uncle  or  a 
grandfather?" 

Her  only  response  was  a  slight  elevation  of 
the  eyebrows.  Santovano  smiled  and  advanced 
a  step.  "Come,  let  us  not  quarrel." 

She  retreated  a  corresponding  distance. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Signor,  but  are  you  not 
making  a  mistake?  Am  I  the  person  you  wish 
to  see?" 

"You  must  really  be  angry  to  call  me  Signor, 
my  dear — my  dear — "  But  the  name  refused  to 
come. 

With  an  impatient  gesture  he  frowned  and 
snapped  his  fingers. 

"Well,  never  mind!  My  wits  are  wandering 
to-day.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  not  myself,  just  at 
present."  And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

But  the  haughty  little  lady  became  yet  more 
erect,  dropping  all  pretence  of  hiding  her  annoy 
ance,  and  again  retreated. 

"Excuse  me,  Signor,  but  whom  did  you  wish 
to  see  in  this  house?" 

Santovano  tried  hard  to  smile. 

"Really,  you  are  doing  it  extremely  well, 
Elizabetta." 

Elizabetta! — the   name   had   come   to   him! 

255 


The  Villa  Claudia 

And  from  fear  of  it  again  escaping,  he  repeated 
it,  nodding  his  head,  uElizabetta,  Elizabetta." 

With  a  look  of  alarm  she  glanced  toward  the 
stairs. 

"Oh,  come !"  he  exclaimed.  "Let  us  end  this 
comedy!  Are  we  meeting  for  the  first  time? 
Have  you  never  seen  me  before?  Am  I  so 
changed  that " 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips.  For,  as  he 
spoke,  he  turned,  in  mockery,  to  the  large  mirror 
beside  him.  But  the  mocking  smile  melted  sud 
denly  away,  and  his  jaw  dropped.  Motionless, 
the  cold  sweat  upon  his  brow,  he  stared,  then 
closed  his  eyes,  and  looked  again — and  yet  again 
at  the  person  in  the  mirror  who  was  regarding 
him; — a  besotted,  maudlin  old  man — another 
Fra  Diavolo,  but  more  repulsive,  more  sensual 
and  brutish.  The  flesh  was  pale,  yet  blotched 
with  color;  the  hair  an  ashen  gray.  Bleared  eyes 
with  bags  beneath;  a  purple  nose  and  pendent 
lower  lip  all  told  together  one  ignoble,  vicious 
tale. 

No !     It  could  not  be  he !     This  was  some 

nightmare,  some  ghastly  apparition  that  follows 

a  debauch :  some  trick  of  nerves  or  brain.    For  a 

moment  he  dared  not  move — from  fear  this  vile 

256 


The  Price 

old  man  might  do  the  same.  Slowly,  in  the  des 
perate  hope  that  the  object  in  the  mirror  might 
not  respond,  he  began  a  gesture.  But  as  his  right 
hand  moved  stealthily  upward  the  venerable 
drunkard  moved  his  left — each  watching  the 
other  with  a  look  of  dread.  Then,  quickly,  San- 
tovano  jerked  his  head  and  lowered  his  hand. 
The  stranger  did  likewise,  and  the  motions 
were  simultaneous. 

As  over  Santovano's  deadened  senses,  now 
quickened  by  terror,  came  the  awful  knowledge 
that  this  creature  was  himself,  he  closed  his  eyes 
and  staggered  toward  the  wall.  Sinking  upon  a 
chair,  he  hid,  with  quivering  fingers,  his  senile, 
sottish  face. 


257 


Far-reaching  hopes  are  not  for  us,  the  creatures  of  a  day. 


Horace. 


258 


XIX 


17 


259 


XIX 

THE    LOST   VERSE 

ALTHOUGH  dazed  and  crushed  for  a 
moment  only,  that  moment,  to  Santovano, 
contained  a  world  of  self-abasement  and 
of  keenest  shame.     For  the  dominant  trait  in 
this  gentleman's  character  was  pride, — pride  of 
ancestry  and  of  intellect;  pride  in  his  force  and 
courage;  in  his  breeding,  his  presence,  and  his 
personal    appearance — in    short,    an    invincible 
pride  in  Giulio  di  Lunigiani  di  Santovano.    And 
of  this  pride  a  living  fragment  still  remained. 
But  even  this,  along  with  his  memory,  cour 
age,  will — all  were  slowly  melting  away. 

He  looked  up,  and  saw  the  woman  who  once 
was  his,  regarding  him  with  surprise — and  con- 
temptuous  pity.  Summoning,  with  a  final  effort, 
his  fading  energies,  he  arose  from  his  chair.  A 
glance  at  her  face  and  he  gathered  courage,  for, 
thank  God!  she  had  failed  to  recognize  him. 
260 


The  Lost  Verse 

Ceremoniously,  he  bowed.  "Pardon  me,  Signo- 
rina,"  his  voice  came  thinner  and  yet  more 
uneven  than  heretofore.  "I  see  I  have  made  a 
mistake.  This  is  not  the  house  I  was  seeking. 
Please  forgive  the  intrusion — and  the  inexcus 
able  annoyance  I  have  caused  you." 

His  salutation  was  returned. 

"Certainly,  Signer." 

Again  he  bowed  and  retreated  toward  the 
outer  vestibule.  He  took  a  hat — his  own  hat — 
from  the  console  in  the  hall,  and  opened  the 
front  door.  But  he  saw,  standing  before  the 
house,  and  directly  in  his  path,  two  ladies  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  the  Count  d'Aquila.  Their 
laughter  reached  his  ears,  the  laughter  of  a 
merry  conversation.  At  the  thought  of  con 
fronting  these  people,  with  the  possibility  of  be 
ing  recognized,  every  fibre  of  Santovano's  an 
cient  pride  revolted.  Shrinking  back  into  the 
Villa  Claudia,  he  closed  the  door. 

Then  he  tried  to  think.  His  recent  efforts  in 
this  field  had  not  succeeded,  but  now  he  made 
another  attempt  to  direct  his  thoughts ;  to  reason, 
to  decide  on  a  course  of  action.  As  he  stood  in 
uncertainty,  his  hand  upon  the  door-knob,  he 
heard  Betty  Farnham's  footsteps  ascending  the 
261 


The  Villa  Claudia 

stairs  to  the  floor  above.  Then,  to  his  wander 
ing  senses,  came  an  inspiration — to  escape  by 
the  garden.  For  he  understood  that  she,  hear 
ing  the  closing  of  the  door,  believed  he  had  de 
parted. 

Silently  across  the  hall  he  tiptoed,  out  upon 
the  terrace;  then  slowly,  with  uncertain  legs, 
down  the  marble  steps  to  the  gravel  walk.  He 
stopped  for  a  moment,  astonished  at  the  dazzling 
colors  of  the  garden.  With  childish  delight  he 
inhaled  the  perfumes.  He  was  also  astonished 
at  the  multiplicity  of  marbles;  statues,  busts, 
sculptured  slabs,  and  vases  in  stone  and  bronze. 
Farther  down  the  walk,  a  tall  old  man,  now  a 
somewhat  indefinable  figure  against  the  setting 
sun,  was  coming  toward  the  villa.  This  old  man, 
in  beggar's  garb,  walked  slowly  and  seemed  to 
stare  about  him  as  if  in  search  of  something.  To 
avoid  this  stranger  Santovano  turned  into  a  side 
path,  and  soon  found  himself  at  the  ruins  of  a 
little  temple.  Here,  descending  three  steps  to 
an  ancient  pavement,  he  concealed  himself  be 
hind  a  column.  But  the  elderly  beggar  had  also 
taken  this  side  path,  and  he  also  came  to  the  little 
temple,  likewise  descending  to  the  ancient  pave 
ment. 

262 


The  Lost  Verse 

Santovano,  annoyed  at  being  thus  pursued, 
stepped  forth  and  confronted  the  intruder.  But 
the  intruder  gave  him  no  attention  except  a 
careless  glance.  For  the  old  beggar,  whose 
foolish,  empty  face  was  indefinably  repugnant  to 
Santovano,  turned  at  once  with  fascinated  eyes 
to  an  ancient  marble  slab  on  which  were  sculpt 
ured  two  drunken  cupids.  These  cupids  Santo 
vano  had  seen  before — but  years  ago,  perhaps, 
and  under  circumstances  of  which  he  had  no  re 
membrance.  Over  the  old  beggar,  however, 
they  seemed  to  weave  a  spell.  Ignoring  the  pres 
ence  of  Santovano,  he  fingered,  with  absent  mind, 
a  flute  suspended  from  his  neck,  his  eyes  intently 
fixed  upon  the  ancient  tablet.  Then,  as  if  in  a 
dream — or  mistrusting  his  own  senses — he  went 
nearer  and  passed  his  hands  over  the  sculptured 
marble. 

Turning  about,  his  drunkard's  face  illumined 
by  a  suddenly  awakened  memory,  he  recited, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  some  lines  in  Latin — lines 
whose  beauty  of  language  and  charm  of  style 
are  lost  in  translation. 

And  the  old  beggar  recited  them  extremely 
well,  with  delicate  emphasis  and  a  scholarly 
appreciation. 

263 


The  Villa  Claudia 

The  very  first  words  brought  a  singular  trans 
formation  to  Santovano's  face. 

Love  and  the  Grape, 
What  waste  of  life  all  else  ! 
And  so,  young  winged  god, 
And  joy-dispensing  Bacchus, 
Look  to  it,  in  years  to  come, 

That  vineyards  thrive 

And  lovers  meet, 
To  smother  Time  in  kisses — 

And  old  Falernian. 

Santovano's  look  of  annoyance  had  departed. 
His  face  lit  up  with  an  expression  that  bore  a 
curious  resemblance  to  that  of  the  beggar  while 
reciting  the  verse.  There  also  came  with  the 
words  a  sudden  clearing  of  his  memory — a  melt 
ing  of  the  mists.  With  eager  face  and  parted 
lips  he  moved  nearer,  and  at  the  end,  after  a  mo 
ment  of  mute  astonishment,  he  exclaimed  in  Ital 
ian, 

"That  is  the  lost  verse!  The  lost  verse  of 
Horace!" 

But  from  the  old  man's  face  the  light  was 
already  fading,  and  he  regarded  the  speaker 
with  a  vacant,  uncomprehending  stare.  Santo- 
vano  repeated  the  verse  as  if  to  fix  it  in  his  mem 
ory;  then  with  a  look  of  perplexity: 
264 


The  Lost  Verse 

"But  when — how — how — did  you  get  it?" 

Fra  Diavolo  gazed  in  silence  at  his  questioner, 
then  looked  away. 

"Say  something!  Speak!  Where  did  you 
get  it?  How  came  you  to — know  it?" 

But  there  was  no  answer.  With  one  hand 
Santovano  removed  his  hat,  passing  the  other 
against  his  forehead  as  if  to  calm  his  brain — or 
bring  order  out  of  chaos. 

"Who  else  could  know  it?  Nobody — nobody 
except  he  and  I.  It  faded  away,  and  di  Forli, 
only  di  Forli,  could  repeat  it." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  movement  that  startled 
his  companion,  he  let  fall  his  hat,  took  a  forward 
step,  and  whispered,  with  a  look  of  awe, 

"Mother  of  God!  Is  it  possible?  Are  you 
— are  you — di  Forli  ?" 

Still  no  reply;  merely  a  vacant  stare  into  the 
speaker's  excited  face. 

"No!  No!  Impossible!  But  say  something ! 
Who  are  you?" 

Stepping  nearer,  Santovano  tapped  him  on 
the  chest  and  shook  him. 

"Who  are  you?    Speak,  you  fool!" 

Fra  Diavolo,  with  the  slightest  possible  shade 
of  annoyance  in  his  sodden  old  face,  stepped 
265 


The  Villa  Claudia 

away  from  the  disturbing  hands  and  toyed  ab 
sently  with  his  flute.  But  Santovano  studied 
closely  the  old  man's  features  and  his  figure. 

"Yes,  old  friend,  I  see  now.  I  understand. 
We  look  alike,  you  and  I.  And  you,  poor  di 
Forli,  you  too,  tasted  the  wine  in  the  amphora. 
An  amusing  joke  of  Horace !  Ha !  Oh,  an 
amusing  joke !  But  Capodilista  and  Hollowell 
— their  faces  too — like  ours.  Why  death  for 
them?  Why  so  much  luckier  than  we?" 

Nodding  his  head,  he  went  on  in  a  melan 
choly  voice, 

"Ah!  I  see — we  drank  less — we  took  one 
little  glass.  Two  glasses  meant  the  dream  with 
out  the  awakening.  God!  If  I  had  only 
known !" 

Then,  with  a  gesture  of  impotent  rage, 

"We,  poor  fools,  who  had  strength  to  resist 
— we  live  on  to — to — to  what?  Justice  of  hell ! 
my  brain — is — is  drunk —  Yes,  drunk." 

He  whirled  about,  stooped  for  his  hat  and 
put  it  on.  Turning  again  to  Fra  Diavolo,  "You 
a  beggar,  and  all  this  garden  yours ! — this  villa 
too!  Why, — why,  do  you  not — why — why  do 
you " 

But  the  final  flash  of  memory  had  died  away. 
266 


The  Lost  Verse 

From  its  flickering  embers  came  no  light.  With 
a  glance  at  Fra  Diavolo,  of  affection,  of  feeble 
resentment  and  of  pity,  he  ascended  the  three 
steps  and  hurried  away,  down  the  garden  path, 
repeating  mechanically  the  verse  he  had  just  re 
covered.  Through  the  doorway  in  the  garden 
wall — by  which  Morris  Lane,  on  a  previous 
evening,  made  his  fateful  entrance — Santovano 
passed  out  into  the  twilight.  Into  a  new  life  he 
entered,  not  as  a  high-born  youth  with  splendid 
talents,  but  as  a  repugnant,  half-witted  old  man; 
unknown  and  a  pauper. 

Di  Forli,  left  alone  at  the  little  temple,  put  the 
flute  to  his  lips  and  began  his  air  from  Fra  Dia 
volo.  As  this  gave  warning  of  his  presence  the 
gardener — with  the  high  shoulders  and  small 
head — moved  at  once  in  that  direction.  Gently 
he  drew  the  instrument  from  the  player's  lips, 
looking  reprovingly  into  the  eyes  of  his  former 
master,  whose  loss  he  sincerely  mourned  and  for 
knowledge  of  whose  whereabouts  he  would  have 
given  much.  Leading  him  down  the  long  path, 
beyond  the  fountain,  a  few  pieces  of  copper  were 
dropped  into  his  pocket  and  di  Forli  was  ten 
derly  ejected  from  his  own  garden,  and  the  door 
bolted  behind  him. 

267 


When  time  allows, 
'Tis  sweet  the  fool  to  play. 


Horace. 


268 


\, 


XX 


269 


XX 

A   POSTSCRIPT 

WEST  of  the  Villa  Claudia,  five  thou 
sand  miles  or  more,  snow  was  falling 
in   the   State   of    Massachusetts.      It 
gathered  in  little  drifts  at  the  corners  of  Mr. 
Lane's  garden,  and  against  the  old  box  hedges. 
The   March  wind,  with  stinging  force,   drove 
icy  little  flakes  against  the  faces  of  its  victims. 
But  on  Mr.  Elisha  Goddard^  who  had  sur 
vived  seventy  New  England  winters,  this  pres 
ent  flurry  made  no  impression.    He  enjoyed  the 
air.     As  he  alighted  from  his  carriage  at  Mr. 
Lane's  garden,  two  passing  citizens  halted  and 
deferentially  gave  him  right  of  way  across  the 
sidewalk.     And  as  he  pushed  open  the  garden 
gate  and  walked  up  the  path  with  head  erect 
and  firm,  long  strides  their  eyes  followed  him 
with  the  special  interest  that  accompanies  an  im 
portant  personage.     As  the  monarch  of  many 
270 


A  Postscript 

mills,  the  wealthiest  man  in  a  wealthy  county 
and  an  erstwhile  Senator,  it  was  only  natural 
that  he  should  have  the  bearing  of  an  important 
person.  His  appearance,  moreover,  was  not 
only  important  but  intimidating.  Fierce  eye 
brows,  snowy  white,  projected  over  a  pair  of 
searching  eyes.  A  bony,  overhanging  nose  in 
tensified  the  severity  of  a  long,  tightly  shut 
mouth.  But  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  were 
certain  wrinkles  and  movable  curves  that  con 
tradicted  the  threatening  features  above. 

Upon  the  round-faced  young  man  who  came 
down  the  walk  to  meet  him  he  frowned,  and 
seemed  to  plant  himself,  with  feet  and  cane,  as 
if  preparing  for  attack. 

"Good-morning,  Morris." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Goddard.  Come  into 
the  house." 

.  "Can't  stop.  I  have  just  received  a  telegram 
from  those  Boston  people.  They  will  be  here 
this  forenoon  at  ten  o'clock.  I  want  you  to  go 
straight  to  the  North  factory,  have  our  men 
ready,  and  superintend  the  adjustment  of  the 
new  engines.  Come  right  along  with  me." 

"Now?     This  morning?" 

Upon  the  old  man's  face  came  an  ironical 
271 


The  Villa  Claudia 

smile.     "This  morning!     Oh,  no!     Any  morn 
ing  next  summer." 

Morris  smiled.  "I  suppose  it  is  pretty  im 
portant,  sir;  isn't  it?" 

"The  instalment  of  the  new  engines?  Well, 
I  should  have  said  so!" 

Morris  seemed  embarrassed.  Flicking  a 
bunch  of  snow  from  the  hedge  at  his  side,  he 
cleared  his  throat.  "I  wanted  very  much  to  go 
to  New  York  this  morning." 

"To  New  York?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

As  Morris  had  been  to  New  York  but  twice 
in  his  life  the  announcement  was  unexpected. 
For  a  brief  moment  Mr.  Goddard  studied  the 
young  man's  face.  Then,  with  a  frown  in 
which  the  fierce  eyebrows  became  fiercer  than 
ever,  he  asked, 

"Something  urgent,  I  presume?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!     Very  urgent!" 

"What  is  her  name?" 

Morris  started.  And  his  face  became  red. 
"Why,  how  in  the  world  did  you — why  do  you 
think  there  is  a  she?" 

Mr.  Goddard  tightened  his  lips  and  his  head 
moved  slowly  up  and  down. 
272 


A   Postscript 

"I  saw  it  in  your  face  this  morning,  before 
you  uttered  a  word.  You  have  an  exalted,  fool 
ish  expression.  Your  feet  have  not  touched  the 
earth  since  I  entered  this  garden." 

Morris  laughed.  "Well,  sir,  I  didn't  sup 
pose  you  would  know  it  until  I  told  you." 

"Until  you  told  me!"  and  the  old  gentleman 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with  his  cane.  "In 
nocent  lamb !  You  could  not  advertise  it  more 
completely  if  you  had  hired  a  military  band  and 
paraded  the  town  with  a  banner,  saying,  'I  am 


in  love.'  " 


"Oh!" 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on?" 

"Ever  since  I  went  to  Italy." 

"Yes.  Well,  as  soon  as  you  got  back  I  knew 
something  was  the  matter.  You  have  been 
floating  around  the  works  on  wings.  Your  ser 
vices  to  the  cotton  business  have  been  worth 
about  fifty  cents  a  week.  What  kind  of  a  per 
son  is  it?  Good  looking?" 

"Good  looking!  Why,  Mr.  Goddard,  she  is 
— she  is — well,  really,  it  is  a  kind  of  beauty 
that " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand;  plain  but  honest. 
And  her  disposition  is  probably  angelic." 

273 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Angelic,  yes.     Perfect." 

"Of  course.  An  unbiassed  opinion  is  always 
of  value.  A  nasty  temper,  I  have  no  doubt. 
How  old  is  she— fifty?" 

"Twenty-one." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Farnham.  Elizabetta — Elizabeth.  Betty 
Farnham." 

"Farnham  Elizabetta  Elizabeth  Betty  Farn 
ham.  A  long  name.  And  what  is  her  nation 
ality  in  all  that?" 

"Elizabeth  Farnham  is  her  name.  She  is 
pure  American.  You  knew  her  once.  She  was 
your  neighbor  for  several  years." 

"Farnham? — Farnham?  You  don't  mean 
the  little  daughter  of  that  pretty  Mrs.  Farn 
ham?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  are  going  to  marry  her?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"But  she  is  only  that  high."  And  Mr.  God- 
dard  held  his  cane  horizontally  a  yard  above 
the  ground. 

"Yes,  about  fifteen  years  ago  she  was  that 
high." 

"Poor  wretches!  And  when  are  you  to  be 
married?" 

274 


A  Postscript 

"Oh,  perhaps  never!"  Morris  exclaimed. 
"I  don't  know  yet  that  she  will  take  me!" 

"Then  this  blissful  condition  of  yours  is  all 
put  on;  a  hollow  mockery,  based  on  nothing." 

"No,  sir!  No!  I  wrote  her  last  month  tell 
ing  her  that  I — asking  her  to — if  she " 

"Well,  out  with  it." 

" — Would  consider  me." 

"Well?" 

"And  last  night  I  got  this." 

Morris  drew  a  letter  from  an  inner  pocket 
and  held  it  toward  his  friend.  But  the  old  gen 
tleman  frowned  and  shook  his  head.  "Read  it, 
if  you  must.  I  can't  see  without  my  glasses. 

So  the  young  man  read: 

PARIS,  February  twentieth. 

««  DEAR   MORRIS  : 

"  Your  surprising  letter  was  forwarded  from  Tivoli.  We 
are  here,  on  our  way  home  to  dear  old  America.  Poor 
mamma,  as  you  know,  was  completely  prostrated  by  the  un 
accountable  disappearance  of  Santovano." 

"Disappearance  of  what?" 

"Of  Santovano.  He  was  the  man  she  was  to 
marry.  He  disappeared  about  a  fortnight  be 
fore  the  wedding." 

is  275 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Good  heavens,  Morris!  Is  she  so  terrify 
ing  as  that?" 

Morris  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Well,  well!  And  still  you  are  not  deterred 
by  her  effect  upon  others?" 

"No,  sir,  not  a  bit." 

"And  this  Scanty  Barno,  how  did  he  manage 
to  escape?" 

"Nobody  knows.  He  was  to  meet  me  in 
Rome  that  afternoon,  but  he  never  turned  up. 
His  hat  was  gone,  so  he  probably  went  to 
Rome;  and  the  belief  is  that  he  met  with  foul 
play  in  the  city." 

"Did  they  find  the  body?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Nor  his  watch — or  money?" 

"No,  sir,  nothing.  No  trace,  whatever — 
not  a  clue." 

"He  must  have  been  desperate  and  thor 
oughly  frightened.  I  do  like  a  man  who  does 
a  thing  well.  Many  have  shrunk  from  matri 
mony — very  many  do,  but  few  in  just  that 
way.  I  suppose  she  has  given  up  waiting  for 
him?" 

"Long  ago." 

"And  you  are  the  next  best  thing." 
276 


A   Postscript 

"That  is  what  I  am  hoping." 

"Did  she  land  you  easily?" 

"Nothing  could  be  easier!  I  swallowed  the 
hook  before  it  touched  the  water." 

"Morris." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  are  a  fool." 

"But  I  like  it." 

"Of  course !  Fools  always  do.  But  go  on 
with  your  letter." 

"An  American  doctor — heaven  bless  him  ! — tells  mamma 
her  own  New  England  air  will  do  her  more  good  than  any 
thing  in  the  world.    So  here  we  are  on  our  way  home.    We 
sail  from  Havre  next  Wednesday  on  the  Touraine. 
Sincerely  yours, 

ELIZABETH  FARNHAM." 

Mr.  Goddard's  frown  deepened.     "I  should 
hardly  call  that  a  love-letter." 
"But  there's  this  postscript": 

"  P.S. — I  have  not  time  at  this  moment  to  reply  to  all 
you  say  in  your  letter,  but  I  may  have  something  of  interest 
to  tell  you  if  we  should  happen  to  meet  in  America." 

At  this  Mr.  Goddard  made  no  effort  to  keep 
a  sober  face. 

277 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"If  you  should  happen  to  meet  in  America ! 
Good!  And  when  is  the  steamer  due?" 

"To-morrow  morning.'* 

"And  you  are  going  to  wait  all  night  on  the 
wharf,  if  necessary,  possibly  in  a  snow-storm — 
to  meet  her?" 

Morris  nodded.  "Yes,  sir.  A  thousand 
nights,  if  necessary,  and  through  any  kind  of 
weather." 

"Well,  it  does  look  as  if  she  might  happen 
to  meet  you  in  America — quite  by  accident,  of 
course,  on  your  part." 

The  next  instant,  however,  the  habitual  frown 
had  returned. 

"I  have  never  known  you  to  stay  up  all 
night  in  a  snow-storm  watching  one  of  my  fac 
tories." 

"But  I  would  if  necessary." 

The  important  personage  shook  his  head 
and  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  his  car 
riage.  Then,  scowling  upon  the  gravel  walk, 
he  said, 

"Well,  go  to  perdition  if  you  must,  but  try 
and  get  back  alive  and  to  regular  work  within 
a  year  or  so." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     But  seriously,  Mr.  God- 

278 


A   Postscript 

dard,  if  you  object  to  my  leaving  to-day  I 
will  postpone  the  trip  and  attend  to  those  en 
gines." 

Mr.  Goddard  wheeled  about,  the  bushy  eye 
brows  drawn  together. 

"Give  up  the  trip !  Give  up  the  real  business 
of  life  for  a  couple  of  bloodless  engines ! 
Sooner  perish  the  whole  cotton  industry  of  the 
United  States!" 

Then  approaching  Morris,  he  laid  his  cane 
on  the  young  man's  shoulder  and  emphasized 
his  words  by  vigorous  taps. 

"Better  those  engines  were  strangled  at  their 
birth  than  come  between  you  and  this  deluded 
girl.  I  was  young  once,  and  also  a  fool.  It  is 
the  pleasantest  memory  I  possess.  No,  No ! 
You  go  to  New  York  and  insist  upon  your 
rights." 

"My  rights?" 

"Yes,  the  right  of  every  honest  lover  to  be 
come  an  unreasoning  nuisance.  Be  as  blissful 
and  foolish  as  the  law  allows.  Youth  comes 
but  once.  And  remember  this:  when  you 
are  married  I  shall  double  your  interest  in  the 
business." 

Morris  gulped.  His  eyes  moistened,  his  lips 
279 


The  Villa  Claudia 

parted,  but  he  could  only  stammer,  "Thank  you, 
Mr.  Goddard,  thank  you." 

But  the  senior  partner  shook  his  cane  in  warn 
ing. 

"On  one  condition  though:  that  you  get  the 
girl.  If  you  fail  after  that  postscript,  I  have 
no  use  for  you." 

Then  he  wheeled  about  and  walked  away. 


280 


XXI 


28l 


To-day  is  ours :  the  rest  the  gods  command. 

Horace. 


282 


XXI 

A   VERY    OLD    FRIEND 

FOUR  days  later,  on  a  tour  of  inspection 
in  his  new  mill,  Mr.  Goddard  paused  be 
fore  a  half-open  door.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  in  contemplation  of  a  young  man  who 
sat  within,  a  mechanical  drawing  stretched  out 
upon  the  table  before  him,  his  eyes,  however, 
gazing  dreamily  through  the  opposite  window. 
Gently  Mr.  Goddard  pushed  open  the  door,  and 
entered.  But  the  humming  of  many  looms,  or 
the  absorbing  nature  of  the  dreamer's  thoughts, 
caused  the  new  arrival  to  remain  unnoticed. 
The  wandering  thoughts,  however,  were  re 
called  to  earth  by  a  familiar  voice. 

"Machinery  is  interesting." 

Rising  hastily  from  his  chair,  a  little  color 
flying  to  his  cheeks,  Morris  shook  hands  with 
the  man  of  terrifying  aspect.  And  the  man  of 
terrifying  aspect  studied  him  with  frowning 
eyes. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  back  alive.  Had  a 
profitable  visit?" 

283 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Indeed,  I  did!" 

"And  I  judge  from  your  beatified  and  some 
what  maudlin  expression  a  moment  since  that 
you  were  favorably  impressed  by  New  York 
and — and  by  its  contents?" 

Morris  nodded. 

uYes,  it  does  present  objects  of  interest:  the 
Hudson  River;  the  Statue  of  Liberty;  the  Speed 
way;  Grant's  Tomb;  the  Flatiron  Building. 
Things  of  beauty  are  joys  forever." 

"Yes,  sir,  and  certain  things  above  all  others. 
Joys  forever  and  more  than  beautiful.  Full  of 
spirit,  yet  gentle  and  lovable — oh!  lovable  to 
the  last  degree !  And  lots  of  character !  Dark 
eyes,  always  changing;  and  a  mouth " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course!  You  are  speaking  of 
Grant's  Tomb,  I  suppose." 

"Grant's  Tomb!  Yes,  sir,  and  the  Statue  of 
Liberty,  the  Speedway,  the  City  of  New  York, 
the  whole  world!  That  is  how  it  all  looks  to 
me!" 

"An  observing  young  man !" 

"And  she  sends  you  her  love,  sir." 

"To  me?  How  old  do  you  say  she  is :  forty- 
nine?" 

"Twenty-one." 

284 


A  Very  Old  Friend 

"Impertinence!  Inexcusable  impertinence !" 
And  the  bushy  eyebrows  came  together  in  a  sin 
ister  frown.  "When  did  your  last  letter  go  to 
her?" 

"This  morning." 

"Then  you  may  not  write  her  again  until  to 
night." 

The  lover  laughed.  "Well,  yes,  sir;  to 
night." 

Mr.  Goddard  took  the  carnation  from  his 
coat.  "Put  this  in  your  letter.  Tell  her  my 
love,  my  best  wishes  and  my  sincere  congratula 
tions  go  with  it.  I  am  sure  you  both  will  be 
very  happy."  Then,  before  the  young  man 
could  reply:  "Sanderson  tells  me  you  are  having 
trouble  with  the  large  engine.  Come  along. 
Let's  look  at  it." 

As  they  left  the  room  Morris  took  an  open 
letter  that  was  lying  on  his  table  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  It  began : 

"  Darling  Boy  :  Do  you  realize  that  three  days  have 
passed  since  I  have  seen  you  and  that  you  have  written 
me  only  four  times  ?  Shame! 

"  But  this  letter  is  merely  a  warning  that  you  will  receive 
a  great  big  box  to-morrow — a  little  surprise  from  somebody 
who  thinks  of  you  all  the  time  and " 

285 


The  Villa  Claudia 

While  the  rest  of  the  document  was  of  no 
importance  to  any  other  cotton-miller,  Morris 
had  read  and  re-read  it  many  times  that  morn 
ing,  until  he  knew  it  by  heart.  As  to  the  big 
box,  he  hurried  home  at  noon  in  the  hope  of  find 
ing  something,  and  lo !  there  it  was,  awaiting 
him  in  the  woodshed;  a  huge  case  that  might 
hold  a  small  piano,  or  a  sofa.  After  a  hasty 
lunch  he  began  with  hammer  and  chisel  to  un 
cover  the  surprise,  whatever  it  might  be. 

In  raising  the  lid  a  peculiar,  and  not  unfamil 
iar  odor  came  forth.  For  a  moment  he  could 
not  recall  his  acquaintance  with  it.  Gradually, 
however,  it  led  him  back  to  the  Villa  Claudia, 
to  the  fateful  chamber.  The  relation  once 
fixed  he  remembered  it  distinctly,  and  just  how 
it  affected  him  at  the  time.  This  box,  with  its 
straw  and  other  packings,  was  full  of  it.  As  he 
bent  over  the  case  the  odor  increased  in  strength. 
It  was  not  unpleasant,  rather  inviting  than  other 
wise,  but  he  felt  that  too  much  of  it,  as  of  any 
drug,  or  cordial — or  even  perfume — might 
prove  overpowering. 

But  Morris  was  too  much  interested  in  his 
present  work  to  be  influenced  by  subtle  analy 
sis  of  odors. 

286 


A   Very  Old   Friend 

The  first  hard  object  he  encountered  proved 
to  be  the  top  of  Trajan's  head,  a  marble  bust 
he  had  greatly  admired  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Claudia.  To  lift  it  out  he  summoned 
Jared  Flint,  the  hired  man,  and  together  they 
placed  it,  temporarily,  on  the  top  of  a  refrig 
erator.  From  which  station  the  Roman  em 
peror  surveyed  his  new  surroundings  without 
surprise;  feeling,  perhaps,  with  Betty  Farnham, 
that  a  spacious  New  England  woodshed  of  the 
good  old  sort  is  fit  for  anybody.  Next  came  a 
splendid  garden  vase  in  bronze,  with  its  figures 
of  Greek  heroes :  and,  to  Morris's  inexpressible 
joy,  the  slab  of  the  drunken  cupids. 

These  he  dusted  off  and  rested  with  affec 
tionate  care  upon  a  bench  against  the  wall. 
They  were  in  as  good  condition  as  when  he  had 
seen  them  at  Tivoli;  beautifully  chiselled,  full 
of  expression,  as  happy  and  as  drunk  as  ever. 
They,  also,  were  not  discouraged  by  their  sur 
roundings. 

But  the  greatest  surprise, -the  unique  and  price 
less  treasure,  came  last.  In  a  box  by  itself, 
within  the  larger  case,  elaborately  packed  and 
protected  with  infinite  care,  it  proclaimed  its 
own  importance.  From  this  inner  treasure- 
287 


The  Villa  Claudia 

house  Morris  brought  forth  an  ancient  Roman 
amphora  with  an  inscription  on  its  surface  in 
Augustan  Latin.  The  inscription  he  translated 
easily. 

Jared  Flint,  in  his  experience  of  forty  years, 
had  never  seen  a  grown-up  person  so  much 
elated  over  an  ordinary  looking  piece  of  pottery; 
or,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "over  a  second 
hand  jug."  But  when  the  stopper  was  removed 
and  Morris  explained  that  this  odor  came  from 
dregs  of  wine  bottled  by  a  Latin  poet,  nearly 
twenty  centuries  ago,  then  Jared  took  a  livelier 
interest.  Morris,  with  his  nose  over  the  jar,  in 
haled  the  odor  and  gave  full  play  to  his  imag 
ination. 

Jared  also  inhaled.  "Powerful  hearty  smell 
for  its  years !  Why  didn't  it  dry  up  in  all 
that  time?  Must  have  been  mightly  well 
corked." 

"With  every  possible  care,  probably.  Things 
keep  forever,  they  say,  if  no  air  gets  in.  You 
have  heard  of  frogs  and  such  things  imbedded 
in  rock  and  found  in  perfect  preservation  ages 
after." 

"Yes,  I've  heard  o'  them.  But  this  is  old 
enough."  Then,  after  a  thoughtful  pause, 
288 


A   Very   Old   Friend 

"I've  been  told  them  ancient  Latin  fellers 
didn't  know  this  continent  was  here." 

"No;  no  suspicion  of  us.  Why,  Jared,  when 
Columbus  was  discovering  America  the  wine 
had  been  lying  in  this  jar  more  than  fifteen  hun 
dred  years !" 

Jared  nodded  slowly,  deeply  impressed. 
Again  he  held  his  nose  over  the  jar. 

"Why,  there's  somethin'  curious  about  this. 
If  I  was  to  smell  it  long  enough,  by  Jiminy,  I 
believe  I'd  be  too  drunk  to  git  away !  I'm  feel- 
in'  kind  o'  good  already.  Try  it !" 

Morris  laughed  and  tried  it.  "That's  true. 
It  does  affect  one  in  a  curious  way." 

"Seems  too  bad,"  said  Jared,  "that  the  chap 
who  took  all  the  trouble  can't  come  back  for  a 
few  minutes  and  learn  how  it  turned  out; — 
cheered  somebody  up,  I  guess — or  laid  him 
low." 

That  evening  in  the  library,  as  Morris  sat  in 
contemplation  of  the  jar,  he  recalled  these  last 
words  of  Jared's  and  remembered  what  Betty 
had  told  him  three  days  before :  that  this  am 
phora,  with  the  stopper  lying  beside  it,  and 
the  wine  evaporated,  had  been  found  in  the 
"haunted  room"  by  Dr.  Olibrio  after  Santo- 
289 


The  Villa  Claudia 

vano's  disappearance.  And  Dr.  Olibrio  thought 
that  possibly  the  contents  of  this  jar  bore 
some  relation  to  the  tragedies  in  that  fateful 
chamber:  believing  wine,  as  certain  Roman  epi 
cures  perfected  it,  might  gain  in  strength  with 
passing  centuries;  and  notwithstanding  its  chem 
ical  changes  remain  a  tempting  beverage,  as  this 
odor  indicated — and  become  a  drug  whose  po 
tency  would  be  purely  speculative.  Moreover, 
he  believed  its  action  upon  a  human  victim 
might  be  such  as  to  accomplish,  in  an  hour,  the 
same  physical  and  mental  results  as  years  of 
intemperance. 

At  last  Morris  arose  from  his  chair,  repeating 
certain  lines  of  the  inscription. 

"  THEN  HE  WHO  SIPS  SHALL  BE 
LIFTED  TO  OLYMPUS  AND  TASTE 
THE  JOY  OF  ALL  IMAGININGS. 
AND  THOU,  FALERNIAN,  BRING 
GOOD  FORTUNE  TO  SOME  HON 
EST  LOVER." 

He  laid  a  hand  on  the  amphora,  affection 
ately,  as  on  the  shoulder  of  a  friend. 

"For  that  last  wish,  dear  Horace,  my  eter 
nal  thanks.     Without  your  wine  I  should  have 
lost  the  greatest  of  all  treasures." 
290 


19 


291 


1  will  enjoy  myself. 


Horace. 


292 


XXII 

SI    PARLA    ITALIANO 

"f   I   "MiERE  is  nothing  like  June." 

And  Betty,  closing  her  eyes  as  she 
"^      walked,  inhaled  the  morning  air  with 
a  long,  deep  breath. 

"Nothing,"  said  Morris,  "except  yourself. 
Then  it  is  always  June." 

Her  hat  in  her  hand,  the  glow  of  exercise  in 
her  cheeks,  with  upturned  face  and  half-closed 
eyes,  Betty  Farnham  offered  a  picture  of  youth 
and  health  and  perfect  happiness,  whose  beauties 
were  not  wasted  upon  the  man  beside  her. 

This  happens  along  a  winding  road,  on  one 
side  thickly  wooded;  on  the  other,  open  fields 
and  meadows  sloping  gently  away  to  the  Con 
necticut  River.  Softly  against  the  pedestrians' 
faces  came  the  breath  of  early  summer,  fra 
grant  with  wild  flowers  and  new  mown  grass, 
and  the  many  perfumes  of  New  England  June. 
293 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Morris,  do  you  see  that  sky? — a  deep,  beau 
tiful  blue — impossibly  blue — with  the  big  white 
clouds?" 

He  looked  up.  "Yes;  they  are  old  friends 
of  mine." 

"Well,  I  love  it  all!  And,"  stretching  forth 
her  hands,  "I  love  these  trees  and  fields,  and 
that  river.  I  love  this  air  we  are  breathing,  and 
everything  American!" 

"Do  not  forget  that  I,  too,  am  American." 

She  turned  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"Apropos  of  which,  little  Morris,  when  did 
you  begin  to  take  an  interest  in  me?" 

"When  I  was  six  years  old.  But  the  all-con 
suming  passion,  the  divine  agony,  came  upon  me 
in  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Claudia." 

"Ah !  Really?  Tell  me  when — at  just  what 
moment!" 

"That  first  evening,  when  I  opened  my  eyes 
on  the  marble  bench  and  saw  your  face,  in  the 
moonlight,  close  to  mine." 

"Truly?" 

"I  awoke,  at  that  moment,  to  a  new  exist 
ence;  to  realms  of  joy  and  torment  of  which  I 
had  no  previous  conception." 

"That  is  very  good!  And  I,  too,  at  that  mo- 
294 


Si  Park  Italiano 

ment  took  an  interest — just  a  little,  friendly,  old 
time  interest — in  you." 

They  stopped  and  faced  each  other.     "Then 
yours,"  said  Morris,  "did  not  come  as  suddenly 


as  mine." 


"Not  until  you  told  me  you  were  in  love  with 
me.  But  from  that  moment — I — I — well — I 
began  to  think  about  it." 

"But  I  never  told  you — over  there — that  I 
was  in  love  with  you !" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did!" 

"Why,  Betty,  my  angel,  excuse  me,  but  I  did 


not." 


"Darling  Morris,  do  you  happen  to  remem 
ber  when  you  first  heard  of  my  engagement  to 
Santovano?" 

"Do  I  remember  it!  The  blackest  moment 
of  my  life !  We  stood  on  the  terrace." 

"Yes.    Well,  it  was  then  you  told  me." 

"Told  you  what?" 

"That  the  news  of  my  engagement  to  an 
other  man  was  a  cruel  blow." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  took  especial  care  to  keep 
my  secret  to  myself." 

Betty  smiled.  "Simple  boy!  Your  heart 
was  an  open  page.  Such  misery  in  your  eyes! 
295 


The  Villa  Claudia 

such  despair,  and  such  resentment!  No  words 
were  needed.  Really,  my  heart  went  out  to 
you." 

"And  I  never  suspected  it!  Then  you  did 
have  a  little  pity  for  me?" 

"More  than  pity.  But  with  my  promises  to 
Santovano  I  felt  very  miserable  and  very 
wicked.  And  I  still  feel  wicked — and  very 
much  ashamed.  But  it  showed  me  that  I  had 
no  real  love  for  Santovano." 

"Lucky  Santovano!"  Morris  exclaimed. 
"Happy  the  man  who  loses  his  life  instead  of 
his  girl!" 

"Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"I  know  it." 

"Morris,"  said  Betty,  "you  are  fat  with  a 
round  face — like  a  cherub.  Your  nose  is  too 
short  and  you  are  very  presuming,  and  familiar; 
and  your  cravat  is  crooked — yet — I  love  you 
dearly." 

Morris  came  nearer  still  and  looked  ear- 
nestly  into  her  eyes.  "And,  as  for  you,  your 
nose  is  a  dream;  you  are  perfect  in  every  way, 
and  by  far  the  most  desirable  thing  in  creation 
— and  yet — I  love  you  dearly." 

She  was  standing  with  her  hands  behind  her, 
296 


Si  Parla  Italiano 

their  smiling  faces  coming  nearer,  and  still 
nearer,  together.  But  Morris,  before  proceed 
ing  further,  cast  a  rapid  glance  along  the  road 
behind  them — where  nobody  was  in  sight;  then 
another  toward  the  village.  With  this  second 
glance  he  drew  back,  somewhat  hastily,  and 
straightened  up.  Betty  also  looked  in  that 
direction. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  is  it?"  she  murmured. 

"Two  men,"  said  Morris,  "and  a — a  what?" 

"It's  a  bear." 

"Why,  of  course!" 

Starting  on  again,  they  met  in  another  mo 
ment  the  three  figures  coming  from  the  village : 
an  organ-grinder,  bending  beneath  the  instru 
ment  on  his  back,  followed  by  an  old  man, 
who  led  a  bear.  The  grinder,  a  swarthy 
person  with  the  blackest  of  beards,  raised  his 
hat  and  saluted,  ceremoniously,  the  two  Amer 
icans. 

"Gooda-day,  lady." 

"Good-day,"  said  Morris. 

The  organ-grinder  bowed  again,  still  smil 
ing,  and  swung  his  organ  around  in  front  of 
him.  In  raising  the  faded  green  cloth  that  cov 
ered  it  he  disclosed  a  scene  upon  the  operatic 
297 


The  Villa  Claudia 

stage,  where  a  pasteboard  Trovatore  stood  face 
to  face  with  his  pasteboard  Leonora.  As  the 
grinder's  hand  touched  the  crank  to  set  in  mo 
tion  these  figures  and  their  music,  Betty  re 
strained  him  with  a  gesture.  In  Italian  she 
said: 

"Thanks;  but  do  not  trouble  yourself  to 
play." 

At  these  words  in  his  own  language  the  man's 
face  showed  an  irrepressible  joy. 

"Ah!  The  Signorina  speaks  Italian!  She  is 
Italian  herself,  perhaps?  Yes?  Yes?" 

"No,  American;  but  I  have  lived  a  long  time 
in  your  beautiful  Italy." 

"Where  in  Italy?     Where,  Signorina?" 

"In  Rome,  principally,  and  in  Tivoli." 

"Ah !  I  also  know  Rome,  a  little :  and  I  know 
Tivoli  very  well.  I  am  from  Vicovaro,  and 
that  is  near  Tivoli.  Perhaps  you  know  Vico 
varo?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Turning  to  Morris,  "He  is  from 
Vicovaro,  near  Horace's  farm,  you  know." 

"Yes,  the  place  I  never  reached." 

"Si!  Si!"  exclaimed  the  grinder,  "la  villa 
d'Orazio." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Morris,  "that  we  fear  he 
298 


Si  Park  Italiano 

will  find  Italy  very  cold  and  colorless  after  the 
sensuous  splendors  of  Boston." 

"I  shall  tell  him  no  such  thing!"  But  she 
said  to  him  instead,  "If  you  have  lived  in  Tivoli 
perhaps  you  know  Fra  Diavolo?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Signorina,  everybody  in  Tivoli 
knew  Fra  Diavolo.  He  is  dead  now." 

"Dead!"  And  Betty's  face  showed  real  sor 
row.  "Oh!  Is  Fra  Diavolo  dead?" 

"Yes,  Signorina.  He  was  found  one  day  in 
his  usual  place,  sitting  before  the  Villa  Claudia, 
his  soul  away.  Did  you  happen  to  know  the 
Villa  Claudia?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  believed  that  some  wicked  spirit  from 
that  abode  came  forth  in  broad  daylight — in 
the  sunshine  of  the  morning — and  touched,  with 
the  finger  of  death,  the  old  musician." 

"They  found  him  there  in  the  morning?" 

"At  noon,  Signorina.  When  little  Taddeo 
Poggi,  the  boy  who  used  to  lead  him  home  to 
dinner,  went  that  day,  as  usual,  and  pulled  his 
sleeve  to  wake  him  up,  he  found  that  he  was 
dead,  his  flute  in  his  hand." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"In  the  month  of  February." 
299 


The  Villa  Claudia 

"Then  you  and  your  friend  have  not  been 
long  in  this  country." 

"We  came  in  March,  Signorina." 

All  this  was  translated  to  Morris,  who  also 
expressed  his  sympathy  for  Fra  Diavolo.  "But 
I  think  the  old  fellow  lost  little  pleasure  by  his 
dying." 

"Yes,  death  could  rob  him  of  nothing  that 
others  value,"  said  Betty.  "But  his  life  was  so 
pathetic,  so  very  empty  and  hopeless,  that  his 
death,  in  one  way,  is  all  the  sadder." 

"Signorina,"  said  the  grinder,  "if  you  and 
your  gentleman  will  grant  me  a  moment  you 
shall  see  the  dancing  of  my  bear.  It  is  worth 
a  short  moment,  even  from  the  happiest  peo- 
pie." 

He  turned  to  the  old  man,  who  seemed  lost 
in  sleepy  admiration  of  the  lady. 

"Ola!    Wake  up,  antico!" 

With  an  imperative  gesture  toward  the  beast 
he  turned  the  crank.  At  once  the  encircling  air 
became  filled  with  noise. 

The   old  man,    an  unkempt,    ragged,    dusty 

figure,    whose    dirty   white   beard   and   frowzy 

hair  covered  most  of  his  sunburnt  visage,  gave 

the  rope  a  jerk.     The  bear  rose  slowly  upon 

300 


Si   Park  Italiano 

his  hind  legs.  As  the  organ  poured  forth  its 
impassioned  strains  from  "Trovatore,"  the 
beast  began  to  dance.  He  danced  as  all  bears 
dance :  a  ponderous,  leisurely,  rhythmic  motion, 
swaying  to  and  fro  with  shaking  sides,  as  if  in 
toxicated — or  convulsed  with  laughter.  Both 
Betty  and  Morris  were  amused;  and  their  en 
joyment  gratified  the  organ-grinder.  The  old 
man  who  held  the  rope,  however,  kept  his  dull 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  lady,  as  the  bear,  pre 
sumably,  had  ceased  to  amuse  him.  When  the 
music  reached  its  final  notes,  and  expired  in  a 
long-drawn,  melancholy  gasp,  the  bear  dropped 
to  earth  again,  all  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  ob 
viously  bored  by  the  comedy. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Betty,  in  Italian.  uVery 
good,  indeed!  He  is  most  diverting,  your 
bear." 

"Yes,  Signorina.     A  useful  bear." 

"Did  you  bring  him  from  Italy?" 

"Oh,  no!    He  is  American." 

"Where  are  you  going  now,  to  what  town?" 

"Toward  the  city  of  Springafield,  Signorina. 
There  we  stay  a  few  days." 

"Where  next?" 

"Oh,  I  do  not  know."  Then,  with  a  shrug 
301 


The  Villa  Claudia 

and  a  cheerful  smile,  "Where  the  good  God 
may  decide.  It  matters  little." 

"Poor  things !  Just  think  what  a  life !  Give 
him  some  money,  Morris." 

Morris  took  out  a  quarter. 

"Oh!    More  than  that!" 

"How  much?" 

"A  few  dollars  at  least." 

"What!  Dollars!  The  old  chap  seems  fee 
ble-minded,  and  the  bear  can't  use  it." 

"Never  mind." 

Morris  examined  a  little  roll  of  bills.  "I 
have  nothing  between  a  quarter  and  a  five-dol 
lar  bill." 

"Give  him  the  five-dollar  bill." 

As  Morris  handed  it  to  the  grinder  the  old 
hat  was  again  removed,  and  again  the  swarthy 
face  became  illumined  by  an  expansive  smile,  of 
surprise  and  gratitude. 

"Oh,  Signorina!  And  Signor!  Many 
thanks !  We  all  thank  you !  The  Old  One  has 
few  wits  and  cannot  speak  for  himself,  but  he 
shall  have  his  share.  Great  happiness  of  all 
kinds  to  you,  Signorina." 

A  moment  later,  Morris  turned  to  Betty  as 
302 


Si  Park  Italiano 

they  walked  toward  the  town,  and  spoke  of  the 
organ-grinder's  pleasure  in  hearing  his  own  lan 
guage.  "And,"  he  added,  "you,  also,  must  en 
joy  speaking  it — a  language  of  so  many  pleas 


ant  memories." 


For  a  moment  she  walked  on  in  silence. 
"Yes,  perhaps.  But  the  memories  might  have 
remained  pleasanter  if  you  had  never  ap 
peared." 

"Thanks." 

She  moved  nearer  and  slid  a  hand  into  one 
of  his.  "What  I  mean,  dearest  Morris,  is  this: 
that  your  coming  to  Tivoli  made  me  realize  how 
much  less  happy  I  was  than  I  had  believed :  that 
I  was  marrying  Santovano  because  he  and 
mamma  wished  it;  not  from  love.  Now  I  have 
discovered  something — a  heavenly,  wonderful 
thing." 

"And  what  is  that,  angel?" 

"The  true,  uplifting,  self- forgetful,  never- 
dying  kind." 

"Of  what?" 

As  they  stopped  and  faced  each  other  he  read 
his  answer  in  the  eyes  that  met  his  own — two 
serious,  very  earnest  eyes,  but  shining  with  the 
light  of  a  supreme  content. 
303 


The  Villa  Claudia 

Without  waiting,  this  time,  for  precau 
tionary  glances  either  to  right  or  left,  Morris 
encircled  the  little  figure  with  his  arms.  Slowly 
and  gently  it  was  done,  as  if  alone  in  a  for 
est.  Although  not  in  a  forest  but  on  a  high 
way,  with  open  meadows  in  sight  and  the 
town  not  far  away,  no  person  saw  them — save 
one. 

The  old  man  who  held  the  bear  was  still 
standing  in  the  road  with  his  two  companions; 
the  Italian  readjusting  the  strap  to  his  organ; 
the  bear  looking  sadly,  with  reminiscent  gaze, 
into  the  woods  near  by.  During  the  recent  in 
terview  the  old  man's  eyes  had  not  moved  from 
Betty  Farnham's  face.  Now  they  followed  her 
down  the  road. 

As  he  stood  and  blinked  in  the  sunshine, 
watching  the  little  scene  between  the  lovers,  he 
murmured,  in  an  ancient  language  unknown  to 
the  organ-grinder,  words  to  this  effect: 

And  so,  in  years  to  come, 

Let  vineyards  thrive 

And  lovers  meet, 
To  smother  Time  in  kisses — 
— And  old  Falernian. 

3°4 


Si  Park  Italiano 

Beneath  the  brim  of  his  faded  hat  the  dull 
eyes  were  following,  in  stolid  fascination,  the 
receding  figures  of  the  two  Americans.  He 
saw  them  very  close  together,  moving  beneath 
the  overhanging  trees,  now  in  shadow,  now  in 
sunlight.  And  it  was  clear,  even  to  this  old 
man,  that  they  were  finding  in  each  other's 
presence, 

The  joy  of  all  imaginings. 

Recalled  sharply  to  himself  by  a  brief  com 
mand  as  the  grinder  swung  the  organ  upon  his 
back,  the  old  man  turned  about  and  again  took 
up  the  unending  tramp. 

Trudging  slowly  along,  his  eyes  upon  the 
dusty  heels  of  his  leader,  with  frequent  jerks  of 
the  rope  to  hasten  the  progress  of  the  beast  be 
hind,  he  tried  vainly  to  remember  where  he  had 
seen  the  lady.  The  mist  would  lift  for  an  in 
stant — the  mist  between  himself  and  his  past, 
revealing — almost  revealing — the  meaning  of 
her  face.  But  the  clouds,  in  another  moment, 
would  again  close  in,  and  she,  with  all  else,  be 
come  the  fading  vision  of  a  dream. 
305 


The  Villa  Claudia 

And  her  voice  !  Forgotten  music — stirring 
within  him  a  vague  remembrance.  It  lingered 
in  his  ears,  but  growing  fainter — fainter — until 
it  died  away,  an  echo  from  the  silent  ruins  of 
his  memory. 


THE  END 


306 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-9,'70(N9877s8) 458— A-31/5,1 


N?  808950 

PS2409 

Mitchell,  J.A.  M2 

The  Villa  Claudia.        V5 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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